You go to it as to a lover,
cleaving an onrush of waters
quickened by ice from the mountains
while out on its banks it is summer.

From its torrent you stagger out gleaming,
drenched for a season of drying,
and all day drip with its leavings,
wind licking you down to your salt.

Wet with the memory of bathing,
you blister your feet on the roadway,
wrapped in your skin like a parchment
seared by the ink of one name.