cutting
along the bank of the river
the water eddies
and minnows sparkle,
but this is not where the river
is about its secret business.
I want to go down to the cutting bottom
where the same water that plays along the shore
cleared away the bones of the dead,
pushed aside settled sand and silt
millenia before Christ was conceived
where the same water that laps tentatively
by my shoes
has been chiseling at rock
with jackhammer inevitability,
making its deep way.
with the time I have
I will leave my mark on the world
until my waters run dry
and the fire consumes us all.
which of us said that? I wonder
turning away from the fish
and back up the worn trail
**
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