There is a river that runs in my head that knows no destination, no springwell or determined terminus, but I am always looking outward for some sign of the welcoming sea; you know that murky belt where freshwater merges with the salt of the ocean, brown and surging in and out with the tides that are turned by that fat winter moon. I am certain there is an inlet, an outlet, somewhere in the globe of my brain—replenishing salts, mixing and moving, reaching out to the new world at the same time it sighs and carries her inward, again, back and forth, against the current and then towards the future—renewing the water of my soul.

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