The River's Remembering

The river remembers what we forget— each spring a resurrection of its own making, water braiding through moss-covered stones like fingers through ancient hair.

Summer arrives with its golden insistence, the banks drowsy, the current slow as memory, dragonflies stitching light across the surface in patterns that mean nothing but persistence.

Autumn strips the trees to bone, and the river swells with knowing, carrying leaves like small boats toward a shore where everything arrives eventually.

Winter comes as silence, ice sealing the water's voice, but underneath—always underneath— the current still moves, patient and unfinished.