moving still

In Whitehorse, the river runs though. With intention.

The push of the river lights the fireweed.

The push of the river sustains the light of day.

The movement of the river quenches the thirst for nothingness. For silence.

For space. For time. For rest. The push of the river allows peace.

Rest in the soft pull of the blue, blue mountains.

The cloud-shaded mountains that form the valley through which the river pushes.