Chorus

Shore lights buttress the sky's 
vaulted dark and shed
a solemn hush along
the river's reach.
Set upon a calm, 
fishing boats drift
the night towing lines
of vicious hooks.

Below them, the sediments
of lifetimes lay in secreted 
scores cast in a language
lost to the ear. In the quiet
of evenings you can almost
hear the river breathe.
Something rises to speak,
falling silent as if an affliction 
has made what 
dwells there, mute.

In the distance, small fish 
splash the surface pursued
by predators lunging up
from deep below. Then everything
chokes to a quiet.
The river flows on
and on, sealing in mud
the sad chorus
of unspoken sounds.

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