Whatever stories you tell at the ocean’s edge
Whatever lies you may cry to your lover
or any other
at the lip of the lake
or any other place you may find yourself
Whatever songs you write about the river,
the river don’t care.

Nature is inured to your interest
and has been for billions of instants
as you have expressed your artistry
or whatever you call it
to the trees or the sky
or the birds or the waves
– they don’t give a shit why you think.

The river doesn’t want your poems
or your songs or dances
or cookies or films.
None of it offers the earth
an iota of aid.
I mean,
feel free to continue, though.
The river won’t mind.
The river won’t notice you
at all.