You, River, cut
your paths across
Earth
and we so rudely
interrupt
you—to
store up—
to organize this
wildness into
fortress.

We, River,
are not wildness.
We
are frightened.

We, River,
are using you—
silly and clever we
sort, carve
this boulder with our
pine needles
and drunkenly declare
victory.

You, River,
are not afraid.
Be glad for it.
Be careless
as you carve
through us.