I need to go down to the river again
And walk out beyond the shallow waters
To where the sand becomes rock,
Then drops out from under my feet with an intake of breath.
The cold green water
Will wash over my head
And I will lie back gratefully in the embrace of the familiar.
How many generations of fish have lived and died while I was absent?
Their kin have no remembrance, but will still nibble kisses along my arms and legs.
The ancient sun will laugh, and warm my back until I roll to face him.
The river does not care, nor the fish, nor the sun.
Perhaps that is where my father waits for me.
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