August Collection

Eventually everything falls into place, into slender white arms collecting loosestrife and lace.Carp rotting on the shores of the Grand, a stench pungent and flowing into the gentle grass. The river starts inland on the hills from where it divides into rivulets like a crying child.I cast my lure, timing the hum of the reel.
I wash myself in the murky waters of the river.
It sings a song, bearing new things to come.

It is finally alive
with cattails and willows and reeds.
A turtle tumbles off a rock without a splash.
The basement of this river doesn’t want to be touched.

It is muck and algae and catfish and leeches.
But from above, it caresses me

and speaks words reliable
as the wind, or as a rock on the riverbank. The sun begins to set. Fish jump at dragonflies.

My reel spins. The river is spinning. You are a river.