We think the river a wild beast, amok, tilling a path in soil.
But it’s us—in another form, searching for a mate who can only be made in our own image.
We slow the stream, to a reservoir’s pulse, in hope to drink reflections—until the end of our days.
Yet, days are a slight of hand, manmade lakes, built, so we can sing to the photogenic current.
Stilled, captured in a portrait
Touched, retouched, retold