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.