Deep rivers are the people of thought.
Voice streams pass overhead,
rippling the vision, until the cause
settles down.
The growth of me, my trees and the
ground of my past spreads branches over
my roots, shading a slow path.
I am a shadow. A gray imprint on
a landscape of color.
A bridge from your shadow found
the hidden ground covering me.
The basket tips.
The peaches have turned.
Roger Singer 