Waking to The River

If you get there early

At the break of dawn

At the first of spring

Then the river may reveal its mystery to you

And you, for a moment,

May know it as the Indians did

It must be cold then

Too cold for comfort

There must be edges of light ice remaining

In the high, hidden springs

And yet you must wade in

As if you lived there

And were impervious to its frigid bite

The leaves on the sycamore and birch

Must still be tiny and just unfolding

If you hear a car passing on the road above

Forget it, all is lost

The river will not speak

Unless its whisper is the only sound

If you do not disturb the deer

Drinking on the far bank

Then maybe, maybe

But you can never repeat

What your soul takes in

The English have no words for it

You’ll just have to go back to living normally

And hope for another moment

Cold, blue, and silent

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1 Response to Waking to The River

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