Little River

It’s the little rivers that make me cry

Cry rivers

Flowing, flowing

Bound on either side

Allowed only one direction

Like time

Like the direction of time upon flesh

Agitated by the rocks

Acquiesced by the banks

Amplified by every down pour

Sedimented with what was washed away

From beyond, from the past

Swept along mercilessly

Or if slowed or plateaued for a span

Or in the shallows rested and sun-speckled

Overhung by bough, it’s the rivers

That make me rejoice with respite and nourishment

Astonished by sparkle and babble and effortless motion

Seeping, winding, ever-seeking

Carving new shapes and life into the earth

Without blueprint

Asking nothing.

It is the little rivers — not the oceans, so vast and awesome that silence us with their scale

To which we defer, small and in refuge on shifting shores

Demanding and tribulating us with each fathom …

No, it is the little rivers that make me cry.