The Sediment of Hours

The river is a sculptor with too much time, licking the sharp edges of the granite until the rock forgets its jagged youth, settling into the palm like a cooled thought.

Beneath the silt, the ancestors of mountains breathe in slow, tectonic cycles, unmoved by the frantic script of minnows or the surface-shatter of a falling leaf.

To be still is to invite the moss, a soft, green velvet for the heavy bone, while the water carries away the dust of everything that refused to bend.