The Unnamed Tributary

It carves a silver vein through the shale, indifferent to the highway's concrete hum. A persistent pulse of cold, clear thought navigating the roots of the leaning birch.

Where the iron bridge casts a permanent shadow, the water gathers in amber pools, holding the reflection of a hawk's slow spiral until the current pulls it toward the sea.

No map names this narrow, nameless flow, yet it remembers the weight of the glaciers, the scent of the first cedar, the slow, rhythmic breath of the moss.

It is a quiet rebellion against the drought, a steady whisper in the throat of the valley, carrying the sky's grey secrets down to the valley where the river waits.