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The land rises up, shudders and folds, a new contour is formed and the river flows.
Coming out of the high country, exuberant, tumbling over itself in a hurry to get somewhere, anywhere.
A trickle, a streamlet, gathering strength, gathering form, swelling to magnificence.
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Yes, ride this wild new river, careen over and around boulders, sluice through the gates of log and rock, see the muscles ripple, smooth-blue and glistening on this massive back plunged headlong down. Stand in it, deep in it, feel the pulsing, alive surely.
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Anchored by ancient stone, dark and brooding, the river moves and moves all in its way, a force uncompromising, unrelenting. An artist, sculpting rock and root, cutting gorge and canyon.
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Currents twist and braid, bulging in smooth curves, looking thick as vent-flowing lava and blue as the sky swallowed. Undulating riffles over shoals, deceptive calm in deep channels, lazy lassitude as it broadens and slows, moving into eddies, oxbows, and bays to rest fore the mornings work.
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Benny
He paused in the vestibule, the
funeral service just concluded
I believe it was Ann or perhaps
Sophie, the story passed down
Standing tall and straight the
suit he married in still fitting
an invitation went out “join us
for lunch” they said
A river ran through his farm, lost
at times as it flowed underground
The Aunts and my Mother would
take us there to swim and play
We in the warm currents and soft
sand, they giggling and splashing
young again, at ease, home on
the river they knew
He was retired then, from farm
to town in a home of his own
Age 93 they said though you
didn’t see it in his kind eyes
The answer came, half laughed
half spoken, in an old Norwegian
lilt “No, I got a pot of soup on
the stove”
One would do well to be old
on your own with always
soup on the stove
Benny was never lost
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Horse Carers
Early morning, passing us with a wave
and smile as we walk our little roads
coming to care for their old friends.
Young horses
moving fluid like in the cool air
canter to gallop, muscles rippling
satin coat glistening, flowing like
new rivers.
Taking lead, tail up into the spray
up, over, moving quickly past, the
way days chase the years, and now
older, pastured.
The carers carefully groom with curry
and pick, soft strokes and whispers
the waters stilled in eddies of rich grass
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The river is life
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