Bones in my riverbed, finally that whiteshinysmooth feeling.

I wait for cracking ice and fleeting fears to follow my fall, a quick goodbye to the lines I carved in the days of the past on the path of the icy frozen river of my youth.

I come from the mountains, ran down the moss covered stones like liquid wind, formed a river, I was digging through the dirt and formed its body and ground with hands deep in the skin of my ancestors spirits. Frozen in fear of what I am.

Down in my bones there runs some ancient anxious drummer, pounding shivers up my legs to my nose and mouth, a sound that forms when you run through my hair, the path, the whirl of the vibration of my name into your earshells when you ask me who I am. The yelp I let out when I have a prophetic dream.

I'm reminded of Muñecas Quitanepas, guatamalan worry dolls made of wire, wool and colorful textil leftovers the size of a half a pinky, five or six in a little sac under my pillow, I thought they would steal my dreams. And maybe they were but guardians of my spiritual containment, they would have prohibited these dreams of real ideas and metaphorical future. Am I open?

we all sleep at that realm of possible outcome, not everyone is anxious.

close the mouth of all creatures unfed in this river, you can only eat each other. Swallow, drink, feast, it goes through like eyes of people never meant to know your truth, I cannot nurture the limitless fish, the body-bound later dish, on hooks, a catch. Don't find me in flesh or shimmering scales you cannot digest, I will always leave. Intangible to your searching hands. 

my water is unclear and drinkable.