The river is ripped from side to side, V-shaped water scars opening to the shore, a swarm of mini jet boats buzzing like brainless bees. Toys for rich kids intent on wide-grinned entertainment, they tear up the quiet, stir up the river mud where silent fish swim deeper, suffocating in water suddenly airless.
On the bank, a boy sits surrounded by his dog’s pups, blind and seal-fat, newborns. His belongs are scattered about a sleeping bag—plastic carriers of clothes and a sack of dog biscuits. Dope fumes smell sweet. Life runs its course. Seven pups dead already, six left to fight their corner. Mother watches, wary as life runs its course, here, rounded by a puppy’s sleep. Laughter from the boaters. Fun floats like clouds of dope fumes. The boy watches his pups. Another life.
Joy in a soft day,
birth and any mother’s love—
precious quiet falls.