What the River Knows
by Barbara F. Lefcowitz

    The river remembers nothing
    about the string of white pebbles
    that moments ago
    gleamed from the edge
    of the bank where I kneel.
    Nor does the river recall
    the splash of the childıs shoe
    when it slipped from that bank
    the feel of its tongue
    that now licks the current
    bearing it downstream.
    The river knows nothing
    of its own waterıs shape
    how it spread briefly
    to hold my hand
    then reassumed its fluency
    which is all that it knows
    even as it rushes
    closing in on that place
    where kelly-green chemicals
    rest in beds of thick oil
    waiting to make their kill.

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