The river curves along East Medical Center Drive, curl
of smoke through bare trees, gray with a rim of rust.
Above the hospital, it is still and foggy on Christmas Day.
A white van gently circles into a spot on the parking lot roof.
The flag poofs and flutters now and again, resting like the ridges
of red and white ribbon candy Grandpa would unwrap for the holiday.
Ripples like the water in the stretch of river below—what happens
when liquid moves over solid ground—somehow both smooth
and significant, simultaneously. Like breath in the body, in/out
through a tunnel of lung/vein/heart, deep path we take
for granted most days, quiet route we travel over and over.
Ease of this river in the gully below, its grace filled flow.