The river does not rush,
it moves with the patience of centuries,
carving stone, carrying whispers
from mountains that no one remembers
to oceans that never forget.
I walk beside it,
watching leaves surrender
to the current—
each a small life,
each a drifting memory
that once clung to a branch in spring.
Is this what time feels like?
Not the ticking of a clock,
but the endless motion
of water against silence.
I kneel,
touching the surface,
and the reflection of myself trembles—
younger, older,
all at once.
The river does not stop to notice,
but I do.
And in that noticing,
I am alive.
