You can find me in the shadows of the river bed

wading knee deep in silence, wearing a wide grin,

loosening with each breath, 

being welcomed home by the call of crows,

the kiss of minnows beneath the surface.


We all do what we must do, 

the storyteller to weave tales, 

the cicadas in vibrating chorus,

a mother to share her medicine.


Quietly moving through the wood, 

listening to ancient voices who are always calling, 


Move slower, they say, the pace of nature is not rushed.


In love there is nothing withheld, 

our mother, our constant current.


Sharing wisdom through plant songs,

cloud visions,

nothing is withheld.


We all do what we must do, 

quieting ourselves to learn the language of water,

and hear the timeless ones speaking clearly to each of us,

to sing offerings of thanks,

and look into the vast endless night and see that we are held.