The snow-melt that carves
a winding course,
roaring through granite crags
from tall Teton peaks;

It knows the way.

And we wonder why
it turns here or spills there,
traveling down the mountain
at the speed of flow.

Surely it cannot stop to debate
its choices, this way or that,
in a hurried dash
to a quiet lake below.

Can you trust each turn
Each splashing rock of guidance?
Knowing a quietude awaits
at the end of melted travel.