In summer, after the spring floods
have fallen away, there are always
the thin, girlish leaves of the willows
left by the river to dry—
draped over tangles of driftwood,
thrown over the roots of old trees—
their greenness gone, their ribs and webbing
spun into a thick, dull paper
upon which all the words have run together,
whatever they said. But you must know
that the field mouse now finds shelter there,
and the leopard frog who sings all night,
and the water strider setting out
across the water, long-legged and light
as a breath.