If the river stood still it would
become a mountain.
Built on the backs of mallards
and trout. Their bodies etched
in stone; we dig them out
and blow the dust off. Rebuild
their existence in code, digital preening,
virtually nesting in the shade by the bushes,
gliding on invisible currents we transmit
to one another every moment of our lives.
We cut it back for aesthetics, but
it will always grow. We always come back