The Tidal River

The Tidal River
by Betsy McKenzie

Rising in, then sighing out,
The tide comes up
The river.

Rocks and stones,
Mussels and mud
Submerge, then dry in the sun.

Rivers where I was born don't
Breathe in and out.
They flow on

Steady, and
Unchangingly,
Never uncovering their

Secrets: the mud and the tires
That lie beneath
The surface.

Jan. 10, 2006