No Flake Like A River

I’ve known no flake like a river.

Alluring serpentine strips - fluid and hypnotic - stretching and bending beyond expectation, like a newborn awoken from a nap.

You’ll never know a river, not with time nor effort. Meet it, day in and day out, with precision and you’ll find no conversation. Vapid or mistifying, it will babble at you. On dark days it will hiss. On placid days it won’t speak at all.

If you reach for it, it makes every effort to escape. And yet, it needs us to know it is beautiful.

The root recognizes it as nourishment. The fish call it home. We, we call it beautiful. In turn, it prunes our hands and sends us home.

When you next meet a river, take lesson from the stones - some will tumble for miles and years on end, some remain fixed since magma hardened with the early earth, but the result is the same, the river wears them away to nothingness. It destroys with a coy massage, always knowing it is master.

Give a river a passing glance or a quick cold touch, but don’t expect it to be the same ever again.

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    Familiar.
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