The Quiet River

I remember my feet stretched into the cold, dirty water back home, mud swirling between each toe, alone with singular thoughts, none of them uninvited. But without that intrusion, without dark night under the melting, hot moon, mystery and fear, bitter wine and cigar, freedom of the naïve, I would have known none of you, and never sought your forgiveness before the sun rose. I arrive today between the tempests, a modest look at the mirror, quiet again, nothing more. And in that quiet way, a worker, a father, believer, and friend, I approach the eternal questions, the river only a memory now, and still, it is present, with all of those questions and answers beneath my feet, when I was alone, no voice interrupting my late night tv dinners by the streams.