The Way Water Moves

making a mouth of forks

The way water moves
in an estuary to the sea
fanning out from the channel
in ripples and wrinkles

that split and reconvene, 
carving miniature cliffs of moist dark sand
seeping in and out of pores of the Earth, 
in and out of sight of the birds or worms, 

changing direction, dispersing to accommodate, 
the skeletal feet of sand pipers or children
whose steps depress one spot but
elevate all those that surround, 

bubbling the living terrain, 
catching sunlight where once was shadow. 
Shivering beneath the wind, 
the mountains' rainfall makes a mouth of forks

and joins the vast churning, breezing, freezing, boiling, oiling mass
that thrums back on the shores
broken off and softened from those remote peaks
with all the force of the warm core

that moved them there in the first place. 
The child's foot recoils at the cold. 
Not ready to be one with all that 
just yet.