Riverbank
By birksy
A tangle of thorns snake up, along and down to kiss the water, then below, a natural fishing grave, sways lazily. Few come here, so icy water is interrupted by rain alone, whose curves caress the surface, push the circles to the limits, then back again. Rock punished into gravel, punished into sand, the whitest sand, it keeps the imprint of the otter, the fox, the man who nearly made it away, who now rests as dead as the sand, upon it. They may find him, or the riverbank may claim him, as enriching as man will ever be. And though the tree were inquisitive it’s bough bends to him, to his back, a gentle scratch in subtle wind, then when fruit is dropped it rots with him, a strange mixing of plant and animal. Now the air is heavy, storm over the canopy, it’ll go unnoticed, down by the riverbank. Written January 18th, 2002 © on Jan 17 2002 10:48 PM PST, Simon Birks 0 • 10
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"A tangle of thorns snake up, along and..."