Here’s an oldie, originally published in 2000 at the (now defunct) New Works Review, presented here in response to this week’s one-word prompt, Cross, at One Single Impression.
The river sings of its rocks, mirrors
emerald and jade where summer
shadows attempt to outrun
sundown. I intrude, I presume,
I stand near the middle. The second cut
of hay is on the banks, neatly ordered
in rows this time of year, golden,
measuring the march-step toward August.
I think about changes: the movement
of sand through narrow places, how
a ripple diminishes downstream,
how a sound sounds when it stops.
Lots more “Crosses” at : ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION