Vortices

Do the trout in Hyalite creek love in the ring
of stones and waterfalls, sing in the hiss
of water through their gills? Do they
doubt like me in the shadowed shelves
beneath reflected cottonwoods?
And who am I to ask if not myself?
Does the mink on Rocky Creek think
in the roar of traffic on the interstate
above that our shattered selves have
come to some conclusion? And who
do the red-tails think they are, testing 
the bounds of our vortices, screeching 
like trains in a distant train-yard 
out on the rim of the world?