when the silence
pinching us
(and a wiry man
to hunch even smaller
to a stolid woman
staring)
points us back to the smooth
clamoring
the working machinery
called water
works
All the way back
down
through the trees
we pull ourselves
together again
But rock to rock
to a rock-solid
ledge,
settled in a hunch
on the outer edge,
we grope
until there is
nothing
to say or do, but
listen
to the water