I stand stone still on the bank, letting the river
move for us both. My mind meanders
from rock-riffled shallows to a dark, waxy
pool at my feet. How odd
to be mesmerized by mere physics of runoff.
My frenetic world endlessly nags
with ideas and doings, but the river soothes
and calms by its own relentless motion.
I hardly recognize myself, caught
in stasis, letting water do the work.
The river is inside me. I am the river.
Looking down, my mirrored face looks up,
floating among clouds and ragged
overhanging branches like a photoshopped collage.
Breezes stir the water, massage my image
from soft impressionism to surreal distortion.
I’m drowning in a hydrology of random
dreams, part of the current, feeling
an irresistible stream of consciousness
flow over cobbles and gravel.
I take a few dips in the river, but never get wet.
