A river collects debris and silt along its way
the leavings, limbs, the trash-- all of it
trinkets of its travels
deposits delta of another day

It does not choose its wanderings, its depth--  
nor decides the sculpture of its bed
whose contours lend it
force and transitory power--

Its learning journey
ceaseless....

Change is in its element

A good storm will force its rise
into someone you do not recognize
and maybe wish you never met