Buggered if I Know.

Your arm bent awkwardly, frozen,

like a stick edging over the bank,

knuckles grazing the water, rupturing

the surface and summoning tiny concentric

circles.

In the wake we surf a new course

with salmon platting an undercurrent

that weaves tightly this fluid discord.

Ushered up sediment spinning in tiny vortices

before being jettisoned in all directions and

sinking back together, there to await

the next high adventure.

We, the sum of motion become aspects,

we ridicule the stillness and watch the others,

their substance melting into a muck despair

which the soils consume and caress back to health,

fertilizer from which opportunity grows though

doomed to failure as hindsight knows.