Now that the river leaps towards sunlight,
naked & untroubled,
the river grass gathered about their roots
still new to the day’s heat,
the children have come out like broken cocoons
to croon the play song.
Their bodies shine like coins
in the riverbed as it cast their shapes
into its smoothness & just before the splash
finally distorts the memories of everything,
raising pebbles from their deep sleep,
the river turns around the corner
into the sudden rush of a ravine,
laughing gaily & ready for anything
even if it is falling wingless
into the dew shrouded below,
where trees seem to jump up to taste
the wet & fall among the noiseless smog.
The children do not know yet
what the distant roar implies,
what animal crashes against the forest planks
but their mothers are eyes of owls,
deftly paddling among them
with warnings & oaths so strong it settles
in their spine when they turn their neck
towards where an old tree stretches its longest age
deep & bows its head in final repose.
They call it the gate of no return,
sure as birds that they have seen it all.
Ghosts will push their whistling laughter near
their flapping lips & suddenly,
withdraw like a finger about to let an arrow fly.
It will take time;
their older siblings will come
with their wings of daring.
They will mock & defang the myth of the beast
blinking in the crag
& in their strong bodies,
the children will hear all the shapes
their bodies can be.
