All its weight channels between
slender shoots of rock. Fast molasses.
Each drop careens toward the sea
past my fly-fishing husband
hand lining a spent trout into his net.
He’s a shallow pool I cannot float upon.
Our currents in opposite light:
his in speckled shade, mine in full sun.
Our son sifts gold dust through his shirt as he swims,
then flops goose-pimpled on a white boulder.
A glint that binds, gold in black water,
the brilliance that blinds makes me see--
we’ve been mining this river for years,
but there’s nothing left that sparkles, only sparks.
Originally published as "El Rio" in Two Review