One.
Me.
Sunlight
beyond clouds
behind a dense fog
gradually diminishing–gone.
Something kind of sad about the shifting gravel bar,
the rising and falling river having swallowed up the rocks I played with as a child.
I kissed a girl over there, where the reaching limbs of trees still touch their leaves to the water as careless as we were or
ever could have been.
That's where I caught my first fish, where I got that first kiss, where the water starts to deepen and blue. Yes, and isn't life
funny like that? We need only put a line out, be patient, be ready. For anything. And feel the nibbling tugging on our
heartstrings.
And though I never crossed the river for fear of water snakes or the trouble, it couldn't have hurt to share my time in the sun.
Never mind the rocks–I'd throw them again
if I felt I must. And neither does that matter when the water breaks into
ripples and reassembles itself each time, not unlike I do in moments like these–reliving the past, rethinking the future,
heeding the now.
I wonder if Fish know we call them that. And I wonder what they call us. Land Walkers,
perhaps. And aren't we so dry on our
side of the water with all our worries.
Vultures warming their wings in want of the sun flit from the tired old limbs they're on
disappearing one by one into a bruised but blushing blue. I cast a line out, cast away worry. And the river becomes the sky.
And the birds
are but the trees they perch upon to rest weary wings.
And I am what I am as well
as what you are. You,
me. And all
life is
one
whole.
