Rain yet the river hasn't returned. Rocks cup
shallow basins of standing water.
I find a dry
place to sit and read:

Whatever is here, that is there;
Whatever is there, that is here.

A fly lands for a moment, then takes off backwards;
a small airplane circles overhead with an annoying
                                                                                    buzzz.

I am old enough to see life from the perspective
of death, when one's soul returns to a universe
not yet born; where
it will float, forever, without
getting wet.