The River at Dusk

The River at Dusk

The river bends into evening.

Its colour dark, its surface calm.

Yet always it moves, never still.

It carries what it has taken.

Branches dip into the current.

Birds settle, folding their wings.

A hush grows across the banks.

The air thick with quiet thought.

I walk slow beside the path.

Each step feels weighted, reluctant.

The water keeps its secrets hidden.

It shows nothing, yet it holds all.

I throw a stone into the dark.

It falls, vanishes without return.

Ripples widen, circles breaking.

Then they fade, and nothing stays.

Does the river know what it swallows?

Does it remember the things it keeps?

Or does it move without memory,

forever carrying, forever letting go?

I stand until the light is gone.

The river does not change.

It only flows, as it always has.

As it always will.