The river cannot settle where to go. It may go under or it may begin again, it may rise up and change its forward flow. The river can’t decide. It doesn’t know. The sky won’t tell us anything but rain. The sky is just reflection of below. So what will happen? Who will ever know? Is going under all that we can gain? Or can the river turn its heavy flow? Do rivers quicken? Or do they slow? Is there a twist to take? A precious vein? Is there a lighter or a deeper glow? This river doesn’t answer, doesn’t know. The rock it’s hit has split its fathom brain. This river going under breathes below. It may rise up or change its heavy flow, it may prove thunder or it may prove rain. The river can’t decide which way to go. So what will happen? Who will ever know?
This water is glistening that slops down sea god thighs, seethes over stallions, works back to bathe nymph shadows listening. The splash of thunder sighs, the trident’s shot makes gentle flak, then pummels into scallop pools – it slides, rock-hewn, in knotty gush. Blurred edges rise. The morning cools. Its coffee minutes merge with rush.