From thirty thousand feet
I see the river inked across
micro-physical rock.

Water is the artist of the land.

Its brushed scribal flow,
random, inevitable goes
double backs, triple forms
excessively bent serendipity,
precisely least resistant
as the gravity of the valley’s
contour line makes it.

It’s all small from here,
far below, dot-drawn
serpentine blot-lining
through quartzed sand
and blue-green rib-hills’ wattling.

The spirit-level of a crooked land.