The sky turns. The river –
deep-running no deceit.
Slowly, my bones are settling,
rattling here under the osprey’s eye –
there’s a river pulling through me.
decompress a dream compressed.
Hard rocks, more rocks
nothing is more real than the sky turning bringing the
moon and sun to different languages,
or to cold feet and wet hands and tired eyes – all the rest is fabrication, lies –
a rock is hard
except by the water’s edge.
Crystal of a river’s beach
sparkles in the morning
after a river’s night of playing sculptor.
The night continues until day, and day until night.
The river flows and never stops.