The earth is old.
Fractured skin.
Broken bones.
Splashing streams.
Roaring winds.
Press the hands down, on your knees.
Do you feel the weight of time?
Created as bodies, we murmur and throb.
Knuckles and knots beaver away.
And still, rivers are splurging with foams of the gods.
Fluid and stone, resilient as one.
The ancient ones call their antlers back.
Oh, you, who miss the old times.
Did you know?
The river banks have never ceased to verse their channels with obituary deeds.