Bela provides another stunning poem.
Bela places a beautiful photograph at the end of her poem. I am going to place it at the start.
A Bend in the River
The river winds, twists,
folds back onto itself —
or so it seems.
The current moves
one way.
Appearances deceive.
From above, the loop
looks like return.
Up close, it is
only a means
to move through
the landscape
as it must.
Ripples, eddies,
the low hum beneath —
all of it movement.
When I was younger
I wanted rapids,
white churn,
the reckless drop
into whatever came.
And once it dropped
I did not care
which fork opened.
Adventure for its own sake.
I mistook intensity
for aliveness.
The current felt like enough.
I mistook velocity
for direction.
Only later did I learn
the choosing was mine.
Others named the banks.
Called it grace.
Called it destiny.
But the river was never theirs
to direct.
It kept its own counsel.
I watched for years.
Until I understood:
no god could ford it for me.
No faith could walk
that valley in my stead.
The bend only appears
to return.
It does not.
It deepens,
and goes on —
beyond the bend,
beyond the frame.
Learning from Dogs 