I am hiding under the river too.
I am hiding under the river too. At the delta to the North, under sand and clay and water, I am reaching ancient fingers back to the source to come. Flat, but undulating with the past, lifted here and there by your disruptions and with all the forces that wait, reabsorbed together, striped with years, colored by what sings as it thins and rises from our life. Where did you think I went? I was imprinted with the writing of the earth, unread, in liquid syllables dissembling a perfect poetic account. A whisper of colors beneath us quietly assumes its way into our thoughts as they escape us, and we are carried back to the beginning, where everything broke free and danced itself loose from the wave.
