is that the River?
If I climb up on a nearby mountain and look down upon just a mile of shimmering water that flows from north to south,
am I seeing the River?
When the rains come and the banks are topped
is that the River?
In August, the dry season when sand and stone are exposed and the water is shallow
is that the River?
If an oil tanker goes up and runs aground spilling that thick black toxic sludge and trapping and killing all life
is that the River?
At what point does a rain drop cease to be a rain drop and become a particular river?
At what point does the river become the sea?
At what point does the sea become the cloud?
At what point does the cloud become the rain drop?
If I am a river, then how can I be separate from every other river, separate from the sea, from the rain?
How do I exist here and not also there, and then?
Can a part of me be scooped up and taken away and still be called "me"?
"I" am a river, a name given to an idea. A way of identifying a process and a connection to so much more. I am always moving, changing, forming, blending, mixing, being born and dying.
A raindrop that lands on the top of the mountain and drips from the rock to become a part of the brook, that leads to the river to then join the sea only to be drawn up into the cloud to then once again fall as a raindrop onto a different rock to then join another brook. Which part of this never ending cycle is me? Which raindrop is me and which is some other?
