The snow-melt path
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 the hurried dash
to the quiet lake below.

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