There is a Stream
There is a stream which rises
halfway down the mountain
My father showed it to me
place he found in a dream,
the withered spirit of an old Indian
leading him like a wisp of fog
to its banks
I shall go to the last water
when I am old
and my blood runs
like the sad Hudson River
heavy with the waste
of civilization
I shall go there
and wade into those clear ripples
where the sandy bottom
is spread with stones
which look like the bones
of beautiful ancient animals
I shall spread my arms
in that sweet water
and go like a last wash of snow
down to the loon meadow
in the last days of April.
~ Joseph Bruchac