Last I wrote, a river–the River–spoke of pain

guiding the carving of your banks,

erosion of soils meant to flush and drift,

to migrate and feed downstream, freed up

to do work really intended,

as it exposes rock, the talking stones

holding spirit to place.

It didn’t get much traction.

Today, I can offer that that River isn’t all water,

but Wind

and Song…

Twitterings rise from the bathing towhee

utterly beheld in the flesh reaching waters

from where she sings and wiggles

every noodley wet feather, bone and muscle.

From tub to branch she flits, rubbing (always)

her beak first–this side then that–

and shakes complete giggling pleasure,

full release, refreshed.

That, too, is the River, the Wind, the Song.

Somehow the unrelenting ache brings you there, too,

shining the dull parts

in a reflection of glory.