See, sometime in the night,
in the great silence,
see the river with her
once smooth breast
now pierced jagged
with jutting rocks that
cleave her one intent.
Or so it seems.
See, undeterred she
tumbles, spilling somersaults
into laughing swirls and
sweeping splashes. She
flings bits of herself high
and confetties the sky
with brief sparks, her
version of tossed light.
Thus, she teases those thwarted
pinnacles in her path,
as if their resistance
has only enlivened
her humor and instigated
her leaping antics. Oh, delight!
That is the truth, isn’t it?
It is astonishing to me
that for millinia she has
beckoned to these broken
sediment walls that try
to tear at her, but fail;
astonishing that with patience,
what patience, she plucks them,
tiny bit by very gritty
bit, into her escapades.
She never shies from their
stubborn stance, neither does
she for a moment doubt her
God-given dance to the sea.
Sometime in the night, yes,
the great and silent night,
I woke to see the river
I am supposed to be.
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