Speaking of Rivers

They're always there and never the same.

I can't say
I know rivers
like Langston Hughes
knew them.

He speaks of knowing
ancient ones,
older than the flow
of blood through our veins.

Muskingum River, downtown Marietta, Ohio.

Like the Euphrates,
and the Congo,
the Nile,
and the 
Mississippi.

I can say
I know a few,
grew up on two,
literally on the banks
of the muddy Muskingum
and the ornery Ohio,
ancient ones when it comes 
to our nation,
watery highways
for the pioneers
making their way West.

I started my career
on a slow
shallow one,
the Merrimack,
where they use to make hats
and buggy whips,
a river that meanders 
along the border 
of New Hampshire and Massachusetts
before emptying into the ocean
at Plum Island.

I have fully embraced others
after moving West,
hiking, wading, and drifting along
the Sacramento and McCloud,
the Pitt and Deschutes,
the Kenai and the Kasilof.

I can say
I've always lived
on or near rivers,
heard their soft songs
and learned their languid language,
grew to understand
how they're always there
and never the same.

I can say 
I've grown to appreciate
how a river flows,
but also know
all the rivers
I know are 
pretty shallow.

Nevertheless,
like Langston,
I feel my soul
has grown 
as deep, maybe deeper,
than the deepest rivers
I know.