You have to lie down
like water grass.

Let the stream,
its cold waters fed by April’s rain,
tickle you, pass over you.

Bend and float
at the urging of the current.

There is a dam of broken sticks
on the other side of the bridge.
White bags litter the course.
You can’t know
you will be stopped by debris,
or burdened by limbs forming
a cross.

You cannot see far downstream –
nor should you look.

But in front of you,
see how water has already carved
your path through rocky mud?
And how plants do not attempt
to grow upstream?
They bow down to the water’s whims
marking your way.



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