The Stream in January, Beneath the Hemlocks

Under the thin ice, black bubbles swell
and melt and writhe, living Rorschach blobs
flitting hypnotically away in the water's rush.
Downstream, where the banks widen,
stiff lacy collars surround each rock,
arctic islands in a frigid stream.

Yet further on, where logs jammed
with dead leaves form a small cascade,
the spray has coated the moss and twigs
with an exquisite glistening armor in bulging
mineral lumps below, hung over by
a hundred crystalline Damocles' swords.

How profligate! And to think that there are miles yet,
upstream and down, of such unmatched wonders
that no one will pause to marvel at today,
or any other. And tomorrow they will be gone,
transformed from one impossibility to another:
a universe of unrelenting extravagance.