This is my advice to foreigners:   
call it simply—the river;
never say old muddy
or even Missouri,
and except when it is necessary   
ignore the fact that it moves.   
It is the river, a singular,
stationary figure of division.
Do not allow the pre-Socratic   
to enter your mind except
when thinking of clear water trout   
streams in north central Wyoming.   
The river is a variety of land,   
a kind of dark sea or great bay,   
sea of greater ocean.
At times I find it good discipline   
to think of it as a tree
rooted in the delta,
a snake on its topmost western branch.   
These hills are not containers;   
they give no vantage but that   
looking out is an act of transit.   
We are not confused,
we do not lose our place.