The River is now a great bridge:
The one constant stretching morning
Across the entire day
All the while folding it,
Neatly
Gently,
Back into night.
.
In between:
Freshly poured green water,
Water of life,
Calling water.
Water that hides things
And
rarely reveals them.
.
Even the rocks revel in their newfound tones
Shining on their neighbors with the latest
Deepest
Hue of translucent
stained
Distant
blue.
.
Born of morning,
All the shadowed eddys,
Boxes,
And dark watching spots,
curiously,
Slowly,
Lengthen day’s best work,
In their icy stillness.
.
Dinner is jars of old elderberries,
And struggling greens, lost
Between the miseries of heat
And bugs and thirst
nearly quenched,
While seeing the path ahead,
Pitted, dense,
Still tough..
To where winter will set stride.
.
Cravings of sweets
in the soft, cloying dampness.
Chilled, but
cleansing.
All this:
From vistas of feet
on velvet landscapes,
To the endless jostlings,
Riding across this great bridge.
Shaken Rain 