Sitting on the time worn smoothness
of river rock, I listen to the hurried waters,
the slaps, claps, splashes of dancing
white caps with no real cares about
what life drops in their path; running
streams circumvent logs and boulders
making an alphabet of turns; life
racing ahead, meeting challenges
with a fervor of determination.

Movement slows around the bend,
peaceful ambling, no angst about
stirring winds, approaching downpours,
or rivulets running off mountain slopes.
Still waters collect in reflecting pools
gathering shapes of present moments
– trees, clouds, mountain ridges, nodding
heads of  goldenrod and Joe-pye weed,
pauses that sooth, restore, revive.

Lingering on the edge, I am drawn into
back and forth bantering of tales being told,
each water droplet an ancient traveler
journeying to its point of origin, sharing
with passers-by the notions of paths traversed
and landscapes changed across millennia.
who else has stood in this place pondering
the power of origin and transformation?