| The River |
| The river cuts the forest like an old man whittling a piece of poplar on some idle August Tuesday. The water grinding the stones of its bed; each layer releasing deeper secrets that no one was ever meant to know. Secrets of red men lighting fires on its banks and chasing deer amongst the cold oaks, of birth and death, and cycles that never end. Memories of blood that filled its currents, of whispers so soft they were mistaken for fireflies, and kisses shared by timid lovers hiding from the exposing light of the moon. And, the river cuts the forest. The stones relinquish their secrets against their will. The branches reach blindly out towards the river�s center, trying selfishly to hold in the night. |