The Language of Rivers
The river speaks in a tongue I do not know,its syllables rippling over stones,
its vowels stretching into eddies.
I sit on the shore,
feet bare, hands empty,
and listen.
It tells me of mountains,
of snowmelt and rain,
of roots that drink deeply.
It tells me of cities,
of bridges and boats,
of hands that have cupped its water.
And then it tells me of the sea,
of the vast, unending blue,
where it will lose itself
and become something greater.