by the randomness
of the way
the rocks tumbled
ages ago
the water pours
it pours
it pours
ever along the slant
of downgrade
dashing its silver thumbs
against the rocks
or pausing to carve
a sudden curled space
where the flashing fish
splash or drowse
while the kingfisher overhead
rattles and stares
and so it continues for miles
this bolt of light,
its only industry
to descend
and to be beautiful
while it does so;
as for purpose
there is none,
it is simply
one of those gorgeous things
that was made
to do what it does perfectly
and to last,
as almost nothing does,
almost forever.
("Stebbin's Gulch", Mary Oliver, in Blue Horses, 2014)