She crouches over the river as if
she’s scrying it. Though, between us,

she’s not the one who looks for signs 
in passing strangers’ faces,

signs about the length of winter,
or signs she can pretend are code 

for “I approve” from a father 
dead these past five years.

If she couldn’t hear, I’d ask
the river the same questions I ask 

the birds littering my lawn—
about where this is going. Years seem 

to pass before she wades back, 
and proves she’ll keep returning 

by that look on her face,
all earnest, not knowing it. She shows 

me a pebble, big as her knuckle,
pink as her tongue, and tells me