I didn't think you'd actually listen,
didn't think you would lower your wrist into my river:
the skirmish of minnows spreading a fire of dust underwater,
where you grab my fish
I've called you my mother,
my honorary, my gaping at the trees, my gumption, my clack,
when I get going I throw all the bracken on the bushes,
light the holy with my heaven, falter, crack.