It seems to me that the river knows I am here.
I am told that the river is an inanimate object, and that inanimate objects cannot sense your presence. So they won’t be bothered if I assume that they do.
The fish beneath me, and the grass and rocks and old cans, live by the passage of the water above them, and do not know that dams control it, and rainfall. And old men’s desires for water gardens.
They assume that there are laws that govern their existence, and they are right. But they don’t know all the laws of the river flows, or the laws of the earth that bend it so and cause the water to flow in such a way. Or the thick grinding of plates below the earth that bend it this way.
Nor would they gain anything from the knowledge of the laws other than the momentary flash of pleasure that total understanding can bring.
So they, and the river, wait for the light of the morning, and let the laws of grammar be.
white pebble 