Supple branches splash;
Wet pebbles glint;
Long lines of willows
Thrust their nets of
Bunting into the glassy stream.
Leaves cascade,
Falling, tumbling,
Turning to sailboats.
The little fleet of silver-green
Drift away
Down, down the river.
We try to follow, but the willows
Hold us down.
Helpless, we watch through the
Dense foliage,
As our little boats snag on the wind,
Plunging downwards. For a moment,
Ripples spread; then all traces are gone.
And the glass-cold river water keeps on tumbling
As if there were nothing wrong.