The River's Archive

Water cuts a language into basalt, a slow polishing of ragged edges where currents thread their heavy silver through the valley's open throat.

The stones do not resist the shaping, they merely settle deeper in the mud, bearing the weight of melted snows and the cold, pale light of winter suns.

We walk along the shifting banks, reading histories in the smoothed grain, knowing the earth remembers everything while allowing the surface to wash away.