Humming wet rises swiftly
over broad boulders,
explores storm-stacked debris
with cautious foaming fingers,
stops to ripple ‘round fat jumping fish.

“Call me River!” it shouts,
shooting up the sides of high canyons,
“Call me Ocean!” it cries,
as the moon, crooning ancient tidal lullabies,
gently rocks her salty babe within the void.

Hurried currents are the speech of wetness,
rising spouts, spinning sprays,
sun-lifted, earth-soaked, wind-hurled, fire-curled,
dancer of momentous storms
reaching and reshaping every metered verse of earth,
river sculptor, pond designer,
cool, calm brilliance in the presence of a breeze.

Only wet knows
how to widen banks and moisten dry seed pods
how to scatter glacial bergs upon a sea
how to cool an island out of liquid rock
how to bathe and nourish a world.