Moreau River Basin

MOREAU RIVER BASIN

Across the wide sweep

of moving grass

I can read depth and distance—

the cutbank near,

its sandy skin

dusted with goldenweed

and brittle stalk,

then the haze—

treed folds slipping back

to a bare horizon,

a single pickup cab

glinting briefly

as it crawls

into the valley,

threading between

scattered bales.

All around,

a topography of waves,

still breathing.

The wind makes no claim,

and even that

feels borrowed.

This is a place

where things vanish—

not suddenly,

but with patience.

The river’s gone from view,

but its memory

braids the soil.

It carries stories

I’m not yet old enough

to hear—

names smoothed

into the groundwater,

songs buried

for the right ear.

And here,

in the hush,

I remember—

silence

is never empty.

It holds

whatever came before

and was willing

to stay.

A HUSH BETWEEN SEASONS