panning for gold

leaning over
the stream
in the hot sun,
knees resting
on rocks and
sand, dipping
the pan into
the thin sleeve
of water that
rushes down
and out from
the mountain
that is full
of snow, and
maybe gold,
sifting through
what comes along,
with heavy arms,
the broken pieces,
the pebbles that
have that shine,
but aren't who
you think they
are, looking for
that one nugget,
that gleaming
gem upon which
to rest upon.