There's a river by my house.
Snaking through the pines.
Ducking under the bridge.
In the summer.
It's murky waters turn brown.
As chilled as ice.
Even on a hot day.
Crayfish scurry over algae-covered rocks.
Vibrant sunfish circle in calm pools.
Some leaving for the lake.
Surging downstream with the current.
A fallen tree hangs over the bend.
The river teasing it's low-hanging branches.
It's leaning trunk long dead.
A deer drinks from the rapids.
Munching the plants on the bank.
A timid fawn prances close to her rear.
It fears to leave her side. 
The river welcomes them to its waters.
Sheltering the mother and fawn with high reeds.
In the night they stand in the current. 
The river their safe haven from coyotes.
Their frightened hooves snug in the rocks.
So they don't slip away downstream.
A lone raccoon prowls the muddy bank.
It tests each step.

When the folds of blue have finally colored
themselves sunset and captured Selfies and hearts.
When the moon paints her marbles silver and rolls
them across the floor of the sky for earth to
look at as she drifts off into her realm of dreams.

When people have tucked their spawn beneath blankets
and sheets, promised morning and flicked off the lights.
When the bloodshot sky clots around the horizon and
commands us to call her dawn, whispering to her
armies of trees to not move when they can be seen.

When the flowers return to their plots and gardens from
their late bars and night clubs, and pretend to wake
up from a deep slumber as if to fool us.
When light is spread over our land like honey on morning toast,
it looks like a road, or many roads rather, all pointing to the west,
telling us we will find yesterday's sun but not where we expect it to be.