路维的吧台

A River Runs Through it

There are moments of art in life, but The life itself is no art at all.

Each of us today will, at one time in our lives, look upon a loved one who is in need, and ask the same question, "We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed?"

It is true we can seldom help those closed to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give, or more often than that, the part we have to give, is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us, but we can still love them. We can love completely, without complete understanding.

When I am alone in the half-light of the caynon, all existence seems to fade to a being with my soul and memories, and sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm, and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.

The river was cut by the world's great flood, and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I'm haunted by waters.