River of Spoke & DarkCarolyn Guinzio
Through the sole of the foot comes foreboding: By whose doing do you know the bed is hard and sharp, the floor. Stillness keeps the water clear. It is raining somewhere else, and above where it is raining, it is dark. And yet— break, heart— Though there is a there, a river notes the rain. The wader standing still in water to his knees is listening. No other human eye to meet, he watches the wary heron finding footing on the bank. —That’s but a trifle here— Where river opens into ocean, if he reached expecting skin where there was web or feather, hide or scale, reaching toward the spoke to stop the turning river dragging what it will over the rocks. —Look there, look there— Fathom, sound, who spoke to make the not- yet-worn cries and stones spike sharper? The wader wonders what, as he turns back to the salt that made him, what will have been his doing?
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