Eventually there is only the sound of the river—
what sang all day beneath the sound of dishes
clinking in the sink, beneath the carousing of crickets,
beneath the shrieks of children and the messages
left on the phone, beneath the chatter of my mind
that always swings its creaky gates, what sang all day
is still singing. It asks nothing, and in this moment
it is impossible not to give it everything—though
that is when we might start to notice that beneath
the river’s constant rush is an underhush. As any
composer knows, a tune is lost without the rests.
Somewhere inside the river song is a dry, voiceless bed,
blank as the paper the symphony’s written on—empty
beneath the staves. Eventually there is only
the sound of the river. Then that, too, fades away.