To the River

It encircles us all. We glimpse
a flurry of whitecaps whipped 

by wind, small ships and barges 
passing between. We comb 

its banks for brittled shells, 
for height-lines on rock marking 

how far the water came, how long
ago that time. Mostly we don't 

think about it, until it returns 
to lick our ankles, rising above 

porches, making islands of our 
neighborhoods. There's no fixed

timeline; we only know we  
will sink into its endless body.

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