The River
In the mornings when I go down to the river, the bank lies exposed. The river slips down stream with the tide, spends half the day cooling off in the depths of the river bed and chasing the retreating sea until the game is reversed as the sea pushes back. By afternoon the bank has disappeared, covered up by the bounty of the river returned.
I never hear the river groan as it returns to the same old riverbank. It doesn’t sigh as it settles back onto the shallow shelf of mud that has dried in the sun. The river never pulls back crying “why does everything still feel the same here? Why so predictable?”
And as the river returns, barely lapping at the bank at first then consuming the bare space in its enormity, the bank never says “What took you so long?”
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