Why can’t it ever run backwards,
pause by a fishing hole
and catch a glimpse
of that sixty pound
granddaddy trout,
shiver with the
skinny little kid
jumping into April water,
spy on the old woman
spinning about
on an inner tube
stuck in an eddy,
feel dizzy
watching fall leaves
turn to green to pink
to trees that are bare,
defy gravity,
fly on the backs
of fish clambering
skyward
to the plateau
above the range?

The old woman,
does she ever escape?