From this nest
Cupped in tall grasses
On the lip
Of the resting water
Where
Only the river can be seen
Lying back
Taking note
Sometimes.
It all depends
On what is happening.
Sometimes
The surface can glide
An emulsive calm
Moving flatly in slow circles
Late in the day
All the sun laden colours
Drained from the sky
Light of violet sienna
Reflects in the water of
A Turgenev summer evening.
A Spring morning
The light living
Just above the surface
Never getting its dancing
Feet wet
Too quick for the wavelets
If there is a breeze
Too slippery for the current if not.
The river is alive
Under rain drops or
When the summer insects
Thrive.
It all depends
On what is happening.
Taking note
And like here
Putting it down
Sometimes.
More often
The river flows past
Unrecorded.
And thoughts flow past
Unrecorded
Away toward the sea.
In one ear,
As they say,
Out the other.
Millions of thoughts some
Surely
Of great perception
Floating away
From the minds of
So many millions.
All of those millions
Of rivers
Flow to the sea
That tumbles over the edge
Of a flat earth
Into space:
A dispersing vapour
Of spent thought.
Better than Nothing 