Waiting There

As others or ourselves let’s say—furtive, then, inconsequent and sad— or on the edge of thought, perhaps, or into some predictable meandering, the outward accelerations of water against its shore dissipating into erosions, cuts and counter-cuts, remembered as landscape, the convenient certainties of an abandoned past. Is it tree or treeline or the massing of leaves against the sky or color freed from shadow or something of color deepening against shade, the sensible bluff that heaves above the bluff’s presumed insensible marl? River, again, always enclosed by its own turnings, its own turnings overgrown.