by Shaunna Harper
You can't tell a river which way to run.
Trees flank his cerulean depths
armed with sticks and leaves,
only to be swept aside.
A river has no place to hide.
He is never the same
when he comes back; a little older,
a little darker, carrying a bit more weight.
He has picked up what is left
by you and me; litter, life,
our human debris.
You can't teach a river how to change.
We sprint at his side like
thirst-driven cattle, desperate
for a look, a taste, a sound.
He makes his way toward the sun.
You can't warn a river he will run out of ground.
Last updated December 15, 2014