It has a language all its own, running water:
some of us can speak it well.
The Chinese philosopher who said
water never made an aesthetic mistake
knew more than a thing or two
about flotsam and jetsam, about
rucklings, glides, flips and lips; about
the nuances of colour and distance,
the topography of sound.
And I know what's exquisite
about the hues in clear water
rushing over blue - grey stone
whittled and flicked off the Ida Range,
and as long as you don't stand
between it and the sun
it never knows you're there.