A journal of narrative writing.
The water swells, then a push 
and past the broken berm, each stroke 

into the weight and heft of known water,
the taste of fallen fern, the smell 

of serpentine, of redwood.  Somewhere 
it is written we must return

to the place of our birth, each action of our life 
propelling us closer, even as we think we are traveling

away.  Somewhere it is written we must carry
our own ragged bodies upstream.  Somehow

uphill over places where water flows thin and fast 
across slippery rocks.  Now I too am throbbing 

under this stone bridge with my brothers.  Once 
I thought mostly of leaving.  Now

I want only to go deeper towards home.  
Above us trees stretch green into the winter rain.  Beneath

lie those who came first, eyes open 
in the silence of the riverbottom.