M-I-Crooked Letter-Crooked Letter

1 Mississippi,
2 Mississippi,
3 Mississippi—
my turn to drink

the water that flows
out of the rusty spout,
brown, like the color
of mud telling a story
between the winding
ridges of land, sweeping
the sides clean and smooth.

The rocking between floods
and droughts exposes
a jungle of roots to the sun,
drowning them in light, then
hiding them in them same water
that counts time passing
as land goes by.