A Day on the Oldest River

A sameness
appears in days
because we can’t
detect their change.
On a day like yesterday,
like tomorrow,
we descend a section
of the New River,
the oldest in the world.
Each of the kids is
old enough
to paddle alone.
We launch, we drift
apart, join back up,
have the most fun
in the rapids.
We come to the end
at intervals. Leaving
the water, we know it
better than when
we put in.
Events of this day
will have a say
farther downstream.
At the ocean, perhaps,
to a family on a beach.
A wave receding,
rippling over itself,
might remind one of them
of something ancient
rocks said to this water.
Days are never the same
as each other.


July 20, 2015



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