On the edge of the horizon, a yellow-red ball of sun plunges into strawberry syrup........ A chiseled willow in evening's first light will bend lower, beneath us........ Honey thick with summer's flowering notes darkens and stretches at dusk........ Love flows rapid as breath, and we are only clothed........ The moon trails fog behind her and vanishes wholly into the sky........ Why do we need it?........ Young wine wanders by the river, growing seasoned........ The night breeze will thin the milk, will mint its way through the body and playfully tousle the tangled braids on herbs warmed and wrinkled........ Grabbing cotton clothes carelessly, they hang half-caught on branches........ The wines float now, far from the ground, then they will find their labels........
# River Night The river flows through the dark, a whisper of silk against stone. The night bends its ear to catch what the water is saying— something about surrender, something about the long journey home. Stars scatter their light like coins a drowning man has already let go of. The banks hold their silence, patient as widows, watching the current take everything. There is a music here that has no name, a rhythm older than breath, older than the first word anyone spoke to the dark. The river knows it by heart. I stand at the edge and the water reaches up like a hand remembering something I've forgotten. It says: *This is how you learn to leave. This is how you learn to arrive.* The night deepens. The river continues. Both of them luminous with the weight of going on, with the weight of all that cannot be held.
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