This is dark water, wide and muddy.
Tree roots along banks, haven for fish;
River people shake a path from an oar,
Watching for a snag in a morning, silence the color of dawn.
Breeze licking a water flow, wiggling warm and slow,
The river’s belly stirring mud and silt,
Filters through the bowels of a dam,
Its breath cascading into a fall, twisting in a new flow.
Yet, when a storm brews, the dark water chews at the land,
Oozing a flood into quiet corners steeped in soil,
Like a mole, it tunnels in earth cellars, creeping, creeping;
Flat, expressionless, delving town after town.
Any day it may recede, its old bones creaking and bending
Like a twig snap. And the pots of mud living in a bottom
Bearding clear water with dark advice- O slow the color of rust;
Elbowing its way down a course, open to a sea.
Copyright © 06/03/18 lance sheridan®