Back in the place where I was born, this city made of chalk. My lips and throat dry from days of drinking chalk. Hating the place where I was born, hating myself for being of this place. Weeping for the memories of helplessness that made the river banks my refuge.
At Peaceful Valley again. At night again. With the river that birthed me again.
My old river has taken me to the other ocean. And I have returned to it from the Atlantic. We are all from the same source and we will all return to that source. There is strength to be found there. My river is going someplace, no matter what this city does to it. It is too fast and wild to freeze.
I take a silky rock from the Spokane River and replace it with a rock from the coast of Maine.