Riffles and Pools

I read once

that a stream's sequence repeats

every five times its width,

when a riffle flows into a pool

and becomes a riffle again.

I've lived life that way,

staring off of bridges to the water below,

or counting careful steps along the stream bed

waiting for the pattern to repeat.

I've eyed the breadth of my days,

thumbed out a rough measurement of how long

it would take, before my riffle settles

before the turbulent waters break

into the flat slow surface

of a pool.

And then, later,

as I see the pillows forming over rocks

and the edge of whiter water laps around me,

I do the same calculations in reverse

trying to quantify how long I have

before the current speeds

and the substrate roughens

and I might stumble under

once again.

I have walked to many rivers, though;

I have eyed their edges and their tops.

I have searched for patterns and solution,

and all I've found is change

and multiplicity.

I would end my fruitless search, except:

the beauty and the joy

the wonder I obtain

from every stream I measure

and every riffle where I've stepped.