Across the low, grassy plain lies a river,
Some great promise,
While storms pass over.
I remember this,
Scrambling through the intricacies
Of sculpted earth:
A dinosaur sailor,
Piloted by the distant empty,
Blind to the piercing stillness.
This river goes to where it came from,
And back again.
Watching from the hill,
Or floating through the soft boils,
The sun always casts the morning,
Mud, squeezing between toes,
Drying into the dust
That will soon color the sky gold.