Believe me, we have met our obligations, made ourselves into terrain, behaved like rivers between hills, let sediment settle, warm, fertile, into our beds, have become what feeds prairies, filling the hungry brown mouths of tributaries. We have grown steady, ebbing, fed ourselves on nothing more than sky. And sometimes in stone basins, high in the hills, lain still enough to be mirrors, unwitnessed but for all the changing light. With you, I am foam brook, ribbon under dappled trees, sun-bright water clear all the way through to the bottom. You wade in to the ankles where I'm new and young, pass through me at a place still unnamed, where I’m not a drop spent.