Embarras

When someone says to me,
"The current is always moving: It's never the same river,"
I always think to myself:
"Yeah, right on!"
But then I become aware of how quickly things are always changing,
And I want to take it back.

Or sometimes,
A hot, dry season ends in storms,
And I find myself feeling thankful that time has passed,
Welcoming the late-summer monsoons that bring
The cooler autumn weather
And shorter afternoons.

Where I come from,
The rivers run shallow and slow,
Filled with log jambs that wash upon the shallow islands and sandy banks.
But the dead limbs do not stop the water
From flowing into the Wabash, Ohio, and Mississippi,
Draining Missouri all the way to Helena.

They have moved the mountains past Memphis,
Depositing them in the Pass a Loutre
Along one of three branches.
The mountains will stand for a little while longer,
But rivers never cease to be,
Nor change.

Mountains in the haboobs of Phoenix,
Mountains in the black beaches of Punaluu,
Mountains in the salt flats of Utah,
Mountains in the red clays of Lexington,
Mountains in the muddy waters of the Bonpas,
Where the catfish feed on chicken livers, stink-bait, and bits of soap.

But for all my trepidation I have never stopped the current:
The water passes over me as it does all things.
Rain washes their dust into her mouth;
She speaks them into the sea.
The mountain is never the same mountain,
Nor the river the same river.