Lying in a bed of grass,

waiting on the unknowing slap of the river.

Clouds roll like smoke,

drawn to the ringed moon like flies on shit.

“This is our river,” one shouts.

“It’s not ours, nor the beavers, but we all shit where we sleep,” says the other.

Trees sway in a whisper of wind,

fusing brain wires to roots and blood to water.

The moons power coursing through their bodies like a winding river,

arms outstretched to the sky.

Connection undeniable,

transfixed in the dance of the beaver.

Their souls float to the ring in a faint spiral,

landing back within,

not ready for eternal.

Where do the beavers go when there’s no moon to dance with?