Where the River Remembers the Fish

The river begins as a whisper,

a silver thought slipping from the mountain’s mind,

and the fish are born already knowing its grammar—

the curl of current,

the pause behind stones,

the deep sentence written in shadow and light.

They do not ask where the river goes.

They live inside the going.

In the early morning,

when mist floats like unfinished dreams above the water,

the fish move slowly,

their bodies stitched from patience and pulse.

Scales catch the dim light,

each one a small mirror remembering the sky

before it learned to fall as rain.

The river hums.

Not a song humans hear easily,

but a low, endless breathing—

inhale at the bend,

exhale at the fall.

The fish listen with their sides,

with every line of their being,

reading the river the way roots read soil.

Here, time does not march.

It flows.

A young fish darts ahead,

curious as a spark.

He tastes the water for stories:

where the cold comes from,

where the warmth lingers,

where danger sharpens the current’s teeth.

The river answers without words,

guiding him with pressure and pull,

teaching him that survival is a dance,

not a fight.

Above, sunlight breaks apart on the surface,

falling into the water in shattered gold.

The fish swim through it,

wearing light for a moment

before slipping back into blue-green quiet.

To them, the sun is not distant—

it is something you pass through,

something that brushes your back

and moves on.

The older fish remember more.

They remember floods that roared like anger,

and droughts that thinned the river’s voice to a hush.

They remember seasons when the water ran fat and generous,

and times when stones showed their faces

too clearly.

Memory, for them, is not stored—

it is carried,

etched into muscle and instinct.

The river remembers too.

It remembers the first fish

that learned to trust its depth.

It remembers tails flickering like commas

in the long sentence of flow.

It remembers those taken by birds,

by nets,

by hunger not their own.

The river keeps no list,

but it never forgets the shape of loss.

At midday,

the water warms just enough

to make movement feel easy.

The fish gather in slow circles,

a living constellation beneath the surface.

They do not speak,

yet something passes between them—

a shared knowing that the river holds them all,

and that none of them truly owns a single moment.

Pebbles line the riverbed

like old coins.

Algae waves softly,

green flags of persistence.

Here, the fish rest,

suspended between effort and ease,

letting the river carry part of their weight.

Trust, in this place,

is not blind—

it is practiced daily.

Sometimes the river narrows,

its voice tightening,

its speed sharpening.

The fish respond instantly,

bodies angling,

fins adjusting,

becoming more river than self.

They do not curse the current.

They become fluent in it.

At night,

the river darkens into a deeper truth.

Stars tremble on the surface,

fragile and doubled.

The fish swim through reflected constellations,

as if the sky has finally decided

to visit them.

In the dark,

predators move,

and so does caution.

But fear is not panic here—

it is awareness,

alert as a held breath.

The moon pulls gently at the water,

and the water answers.

The fish feel this tug in their bones,

a reminder that even the river

is listening to something larger.

Everything belongs to something else,

and still remains itself.

There are places where the river slows,

wide and thoughtful.

Here, the fish grow larger,

older,

heavier with knowing.

They drift rather than swim,

masters of still movement.

They understand that speed is not power—

alignment is.

Then there are the falls.

White water, roaring,

the river breaking its own spine

to be reborn below.

Some fish turn back,

some leap,

muscle and hope flung upward

against gravity’s argument.

Not all make it.

But the leap itself becomes legend

in the water’s memory.

Downstream, life continues.

Always.

Eggs cling to safe shadows,

tiny futures trembling.

The river wraps them carefully,

a cradle made of motion.

The fish circle, guard, wait.

Patience here is an inheritance.

Seasons turn.

Leaves fall into the water,

brief boats on their way to becoming silt.

Ice comes,

hard and bright,

sealing the river’s mouth.

Below, the fish slow their hearts,

learning stillness as survival.

The river does not stop—

it only whispers under glass.

And when spring breaks the ice,

the river laughs again.

The fish feel it instantly,

a loosening,

a permission to move,

to grow,

to remember joy.

If you listen closely—

not with ears,

but with attention—

you will hear it too.

The river telling the fish

that movement is life,

that resistance is language,

that every journey matters

even when it loops back on itself.

The fish answer

by swimming.

And the river,

endless and patient,

carries their answers forward,

toward a sea that has been waiting

since the beginning.