Moose Brook stumbles over rocks
exposed by its gusts of erosion.
We gaze at the reckless flow
caused by the warping of spacetime.
Einstein knew a thing or two
the way we know angels don’t exist
yet exert massive influence.
The brook is headstrong with melt.
No angels, but wanton forces
prod and mock the sudsing current,
accounting for its outraged look.
If we could flow with such power
we’d smooth ourselves into success,
both worldly and the other kind.
The brook tolerates and even
thrives on a rough geometry
that could easily break our bones.
Maybe we also would thrive
if thaw bulked our modest egos
the way it has bulked Moose Brook,
roaring with unfiltered lust.
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