Friday, December 30, 2005

The Parable of the River Child

He walked atip-toed through the river wash. Watching for the new pebbles; fraught. Vigilance alone will break the day's dank breath; placate. He near sang, near chittered from old river's hardness. Did this river child.

He slidded and bounced, asopping. The tingly things blowing by, catching on his sleeve. But he weren't the widow dreamer's boy for naught. Jabbing and diving and finding; filling his pockets with color bright and right. He had a mighty need for half-day shadows. Plucking ochred browns n hollow yellows. Tossing, tossing, tossing back the wrong. And the wrong's a clear thing, not fitting, no.

River child had a duty; bound him tight. River bond awove him to his father's wants and ways. So aleapping and snatching did he take their course. Til the following ended where following always does.

There he placed, one by one, the burden gained; the duty spent. The shackle from his mother's passion; the dowry to his father. He builded, did the river child, what fell from still-born longing. And with each stone placed our lad paled diminished. With one grain uncaught in his blowing pocket, our child was no more.

From the Bay.

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