A rippling dust pattern stands
Where a mighty rapid once ran
Time and event taken its toll
And the river flows no more
Where the fish once were scholars
And the weeds were wild whipping dancers
Army ants march in platoons with ease
On dry rocks and barren sand, flies land off of the breeze
A drop in solitude falls from the mash potato sky
One after the other they soak what once was dry
The rain doesn’t quit; it is relentless beating the earth
Within a week a new river, the sky, a midwife to the birth
The wildlife surrounds her, drinking as she flows
Sliding down the slippery rocks, the otters line in a row
Over the months, only minutes to this stream
The fish return to go to school and learn how to dream
The song of the currant makes the weeds dance once more
And nature is at play; to her this has never been a chore.

JB