Perhaps the river, if it wanted to speak would
be deep-voiced, gravel drawled. Perhaps it would
be forgiving as the low fog that scarves
the valley redwoods. Our discretions
mutter – light rain whispering leaves. How we
gathered, scraped, took and re-routed gravel
to cover our driveways and roads. Gravel
that was once rough gutted ground down to smooth—
I like to believe the river would speak
like a silver assassin. Loud and full
as a tide-swell, as a muscle of mud flood
that can swallow a Safeway, a whole town.
That could scream out: You don’t know what you’ve done.
In a voice made from the entire sea.
