We made amends, clutching another confluence tight to our chests. Through meandering bends our streams transcended into estuaries, where new waters’ flow delivered our worn-out craft into an unsettled sea. The raft broke again, our tangled strings strained by the tide. You drifted, trespassing the line that suspends deep blue from grey, and I evaporated, out of your sight, into the haze above our heads. The clouds carried us back to land, alone. We immersed ourselves in their density and hid from the world. Isolation accumulated, crumbling the cumulus beneath our feet, releasing us on separate downs. The empty course of our old path remained. See those riverbeds for what they were: waterways once surged, now dry at the source, ready to be filled again.

Ryan Bramley