Born from snow, the stream fell down the mountain.
It crashed up above from ledge to ledge
then slid across black rock that lent it color.
It gathered in a rippling pool.
Where it went then we couldn't say. It burned
its way into the earth somewhere
below. It came up rosy
in our hands and fell out clear.
Later I put my hand
where your collarbone splits apart.
I said, this, this. Call it what it is.
We drank black water from the mountain stream.
