The River


The river is.
It is in the secret places of the
mountains and marshes,
in the droplets of rain falling
alone and silent
from the tips of pine needles,
gathering in the rocks,
gathering,
falling
As one.

The river is, at its source
and at its mouth,
the same river.
At the waterfalls,
the springs,
under the bridges,
the ferry boats,
in the rapids and the
quiet pools.

In the ocean
at once,
only in the present—
without time,
without past,
without future,
eternally
becoming.

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