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No one knew this river home like I did.

Some, more friends than I can count,

dug their feet, deep, into the river's mud

and, on weekends, claimed it for their own.

Those moments they take away forever

But, I knew this river every hour of each season.
I watched the first single leaf in autumn

fall from a tree beyond my kitchen window.

And mourned the last yellow patch of grass
covered by sudden flurries of swift Idaho snow.

I've wrapped up in quilts on a porch swing,

and studied the river carefully in the rain as

small perfect circles rippled outward

breaking against other raindrop circles.

It was easy to breathe there.

I was happiest when the deer came back.

Driven away by loud weekend laughter,

they moved slowly, cautious and wary,

barely parting the air, blending into green,

letting the simple quiet settle again like silk.

The snakes had gone away from there,

though, always, those first years there were two or three

suddenly slithering beneath my feet,

sliding under rocks as I pulled weeds.

We, all, finally leave places where we feel hate.

Oct 2,2015