THE RIVER
The river is as black and swollen as a face,
with nowhere to go at all. All it can do is run
steady and stream with its own pulse of being :
like a heart, or an emotion, a fierce swash of time.
The willows bend to something, as they smother
the banks with their shade. A few ducks with a
rather-smile slowly work away. Their beaks speak
for them. I too amble away, sure of nothing,
yet just as sure of all.
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