Upstream of this human playground,
the Russian River runs free,
sometimes deep, sometimes gravelly.
To drink we place it in pipes.
One pipe turns into two turns into three turns into et cetera.
A multiplicity of pipes.
A river of pipes running beneath streets and sidewalks.
But here in Healdsburg Plaza
the river’s water surfaces with surprise.
Freed from pipes, water
burbles from the central fountain
among children and ice cream cone eaters
—hey you guys—says one teen to a cadre
—ruf—says the golden retriever to their guardian.
And the bark of the Coastal Redwood is russet fur.
And why is no child climbing the Chinese holly?
And the crepe myrtle’s bark peels back unbidden
to reveal how smooth the wisdom of the growing years.
I thank the Russian River when I drink the water
before going silently to bed, the river
the source of wisdom of clouds that rain down.
But here in daylight, the fountain’s aspergillum
aspirates a benediction of mist to cool the August afternoon.
Tonight before I go to sleep,
I will think about who comes at night to drink from this fountain—
—raccoon—skunk—possum—all
possible, the wordling fountain—gurgling—burbling—
concealing some of these secrets,
though we know the need for water runs deep in us all.
