“Where rivers once ran” was the whisper that jumped into my throat with a startle. Barely had my eyes somewhat focused than the whispered repeated, “Where rivers once ran.” Nothing more.

Have pondered the image and the whisper for two days now and nothing more is heard or seen. Perhaps a bookmark for later. Perhaps the eyes need to clear.  The life of the river has left its mark. The imprint cannot be removed. And in the dryness, where blue even muddy rivers once ran, green desert shrubs now rooted swim. What stories their roots must hear.