My water sometimes 

trickles so slowly that 

my tongue tastes

only the stone I lick

in search of sustenance.

 

Boulder, I silently 

watch seasons,

generations, centuries

from a rock strewn field.

 

Inside me, molecules

dance a chaos of motion. 

I am unmoved.

 

Other times water rushes 

gushes and floods as I

helplessly reach for a 

branch racing by on shore, 

as if grabbing it would

restore normalcy.

 

I surrender to 

wet whooshing

and become liquidity

and change.

 

I often drift between 

parched certitude and

dropping anchor

to slow things down.

 

Yet in the end

I will glide on creek, 

stream or river

and the quickly 

approaching waterfall

may or may not be seen.