The river sings to me at noon, With life floated upon its surface,
Swallowed under the canopy of trees, Embers of a silent glistening, The hawk flies off unseen, At subtle angles, through the churning sky; Heavy-laden clouds painted low— Reflected in the heart’s canvassed ways, Where every stream and reed drinks the air. The song creates movement, Cradles softly within— And how— It nests in me that endless echo, Of waves; how its sense unfolds, Dancing along paths yet cherished, With every pulse of the ebbing light.

• “River Song”

• Laura Riding