A branch of the Maquoketa river runs
in the driftless hills of Eastern Iowa
just outside of Strawberry Point.
Fed by springs deep in the limestone,
it is cool in summer, steams in December
flows ice-free year-round.
When I stop to listen here
I hear the echo of dark caves
deep below, lightless places
where God weaves river life unseen.
I hear the hiss of pressure
as the rocks give it birth
and its wails are the rushing of water.
I hear the gentle turning and winding
the din of midlife as the beaver, the muskrat
the crane plop in and out like stones
and its being shines bright and clear.
But faintly I hear another sound—
the ever-larger scrape of sand
the seagull’s cry
the wave crash of open water.