When
rivers die,
there is
a silence
of stones.

Like all good pall-
bearers, they
carry the weight
down low, standing
straight while
the lament goes on for
miles.

The sun
unfolds
across old stretch
marks in soft mud. Slow.
Time breathes out
a dirge in oxidized
inspirations,
gasps a
violet ending.
Sentinel cancer,
the wise acridness
of dried riverbones
exposed
to eyes
that do not blink.
Slow.
A despair in sepia.
All graces
abandoned,
broken glass
dropped in faded weeds.
Brittle; brutal. Quiet.
None know her
suffering. None
can say
if she cried
out
at the last.

When
rivers die,
there is
a silence
of stones.

They keep watch
over what was,
blessing
each raindrop
in their stolid way,
dreaming
of waterfall
caresses.