Cool of the Morning

The cool of the morning filters through my lungs

And the fog masks the river, it’s banks and rocks.

My paddle dips silently and smoothly, swirling

The mirrored liquid beyond my extended reach.

Birds chatter among themselves along the branches

Ripples on the river hum their own unique tune

And the small streams gurgle their way into the path

Of countless other minute waterways, now united.

 

Written unknown date

Revised 3-14-16