Writing Wet

From atop this rock
I can see seven others
in this stream. 
Some are slick
and moss-black
and breach the surface
almost not at all;
others hump fully up
gray and knobbed
into dry air.
Depending on how
willing I am
to leap across
or soak myself
stepping in,
there are so many ways
to get from here
to the far side
that I am perplexed
at least, frightened
at most, with thoughts
of what may happen
if I fail to choose
correctly.
Stupid,
says a branch rubbing
another branch by chance
above me;
stupid, says
a broken acorn falling
then floating by;
stupid,
echoed by the click of stones
against stones in the stream bed
pushed into speech by the flood;
stupid.  Get across
by crossing.
So I spring from the rock I’m on
with eyes closed, knees bent,
waiting to see how I land
before deciding
how to proceed from there.