The river suns itself;
from stone to stone in languid flow.
It peers from half-closed eyes
at the ancient fish upon the bend.
From slumber, it purrs
and wakes at the dipper’s call,
chews absentminded at
the slowly crumbling banks.
It sends its tributary streams
to hunt for sediment and snow.
Through city-savannas it stalks,
and brooks no lesser beast approach.
Here is the North Saskatchewan,
the king among its pride;
in the sun it rests from hunt and haunch,
but in the Spring, beware the lion.