Just where the waters lose their urgency

and fester in the fly-blown shade;

just where all stalls and the torrent is dammed

where its collected treasure is laid;

just where the stream is reduced to silence

following its raucous descent;

there is the rush, its whisper of softness

a white noise beneath the moon's crescent;

its gentle swaying a kind of stillness,

a statement of resistance to hurry.

The baby can be cradled here and wait

to float beyond the reach of worry.

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