The River in the Eye

In the river, in the eye,

a slash of silver caught her mind.

It lasted but a moment,

and again the river was black.

But she knew now a river is not just black.

A river is alive.

The river in the eye, revealed itself anew.

Yawning rocks sculpted under its steady massage.

Weeds bent in the ebb and flow.

Leaves flew, stroked the river, and flew again.

Tadpoles eagerly awaited their amphibian futures,

feeding and fumbling in the shallows.

Unseen artists dabbed geometric ripples

on their strong, black canvas.

A great blue heron dove, splashed, and flew.

One life less in the dense, black system.