This is not the river I come to on other days, or even the
river I grew up around, even though they all connect, threads toa be that makes
up my life, the open water, glistening with the midday sun, mirror-like,
reflecting not with the tall towers of a sleepless city, but the aberration of
cargo, tall metal with moving parts that lift containers from and onto massive
ships, each with a remote destination, the proverbial slow boat to China.
This is not my river. Yet, I embrace it still, like Jesus
being blessed by the Baptist while knee deep, the mud thickest near the shore,
stocked with tiny creatures – the Killies and the crabs, part of the stew out
of which we evolved and we must come back to, like love we assumed once lost,
but rises before us, to remind us of what once brought us joy.
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