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Over rocks and sticks
jutting up from bottom sand
Past bare fish bones
swimming on dry land,
Through cattails shredded
barely wagging from shore
By rusting, dented tin cans
holding food no more,
Under bridges so rickety
too old for cars to cross
Along banks overgrown
fishermen count them loss.
We would do well too...
Always full stream ahead
With no lapping back,
Fixed alone on the sea instead,
Flow child flow
Just like God said...
It's what rivers do.
Philippians 3:12-14 |
