The water is weeping.
It slips down among the willow branches, which are bent and crying also, for they are sisters, and they know each other well.
The water is weeping because there is too much in it, spilled tears and salt, dirt and blood washed away. Sounds swallowed by sewers.
It races downstream in an urge to quietly rush over everything. Perhaps to pass without hearing the news of the next person dead, the next person with their life seeping from a fatal wound down to the earth and into the undercurrent.
All things return to the earth but water — water carries away from it. Shoulders a burden for a while. Water is strong in its own way.
But perhaps it is breaking. Perhaps it is too much. Perhaps it is weeping — I know not why.
Yesterday it was raining as I walked home from the subway station, and as I opened my umbrella I wondered what was the point of it all. Why do we keep on going after the skies have darkened? Why keep venturing out?
Because we might make it before it catches us.
Because the rain is part of us. It comes again and drums in and drums out and speaks its own language, thrum thita thrum thrummity thrum. Speaks of dancing and sadness and the movement of water from here to the next place — the water is weeping. But it keeps flowing on.
Always tumbling downstream, rarely stopping, holding the stories of what has passed through.
This one’s for you.