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“Shapeshifter”
River isn’t a closed system
Flowing pockets of pools rest, swirl —I wade
What do we find in these safe pockets?
I find them so gentle, a freshness after the currents and white water rapids.
Where the rocks are abrasive, when do they stop rubbing?
Like tired faces, where do they erode,
Until they fade smooth and unrecognizable.
Until the next storm moves heavy debris of broken branches, logs, and swells of organic rubble.
Displaced critter, shapeshifter.