Walking wide-eyed, the child drops
to his knees, for the stream is all around
and flowing. He lifts the rock, the water
slurping its way beneath with thirsty relief,
washing cool the inhabitants who sigh
and tumble forth with amazing heads.
He catches some, damaging severely
with no cruelty, no knowing; he wants
them as they are to be wanted and no other.
He catches some more, now preciously aware,
glisteningly upheld. Satisfied, he stands.
Reaching the offered end of his journey
he marvels: I heard your call. I am here.
I will lift your rocks, pull back your bushes;
slide down your waterfalls, build me a dam.
I will return at night and stare into your eyes.
(Your warm spot is not yours; this I know.
You live by the fact of the sun; this I know.)
I will hear you move in the midnight water,
far from my touch—O magic discovering
of wondrous field, seemingly excellent,
perfect, and untouched!—I prefer my hand
in your side.
