The old woman saw multiples
of color in the river braids.
White more so, he said, sitting by. There,
like stitching needles under the birds.
Hearts, she said. I saw a man glide
mist-like, bearing his red muscle across the river.
You wont see his prints in the mud
where frogs thread through the weeds.
Like many beats snapped in a moment, decades’
worth of longing on this hot river, so bright.
How the heart ages, she said, assembles
out of blood, like a snow orchid.
If you pass here again, listen for his going
over water and close your eyes to the wild sun.
