The River’s Ledger

The current carries more than silt; it holds the friction of smooth stones, the weight of trout shifting in the dark, and the persistent ache of a bank losing its grip.

Under the bridge, the echo is a hollow thing, a rhythmic slapping of water against moss-slicked concrete. It hums a low, wet note that vibrates in the marrow, telling stories of mountains that forgot their names.

There is a precise geometry in the way the light fractures across the surface at dusk— a gold-leaf map of every ripple, every hesitation, before the night swallows the ledger whole.