The Quiet River

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

There is a river that runs,
soft and gray, slicing fields,
its edges fraying like worn threads.
At dusk, it thickens, silvered,
a snake’s back glinting under shadows.
It moves slowly, lugging silted words,
the driftwood ribs of fallen trees.

On its banks, we stand still,
our toes pressing into damp earth,
the grass bending under bare heels.
The river hums, its breath warm,
its pulse steady, a hymn beneath,
the restless chorus of whispering leaves.

Hunger hangs in the air, brittle,
like the crack of a bird’s wing.
Clouds stack themselves against the horizon,
gray like smudged fingerprints on glass.
Arrows break the sky’s silence,
their tips glinting like broken teeth.
The river keeps its secrets, endless.

We clutch handfuls of what remains:
grains of sand, wet and cool,
shells cracking under the press of palms.
The water slips through our hands,
each drop erasing what was held.
Still, our fists curl, determined, stubborn,
shaping hope from what crumbles easily.

The river rises, devouring its edges,
swallowing reeds, the old wooden bridge.
Its surface shivers with unspoken words,
a dark mouth murmuring to itself.
The town dissolves, brick by brick,
its reflection breaking into jagged shards,
while shadows cling to what is left.

To live is to wade in,
to let the river drag your name,
pull it apart syllable by syllable.
We are carried by its current,
bruised, softened, shaped like river stones,
smoothed by the endless friction of time.
The river flows, and we flow,
its breath threading through our veins.