Archive of River Light

At the bend where the river forgets its name, a flock of reeds keeps the ledger of wind, writing in green strokes that erase themselves, an alphabet of passing water.

I kneel and lift a pebble, warm as a held coin, its underside inked with minnows, quick signatures. The current hums a low wire-song, threading dusk through the reeds’ thin ribs.

Upstream, a bridge speaks in iron syllables, each footstep a brief lantern on the planks. Underneath, the shadows file the sound away, small clerks of night with wet hands.

When I stand, the river returns my face in fragments— a map torn and rearranged by light. I pocket the shimmer, a private archive, and walk home with water in my sleeves.