Does the water really move, or is it the River Deva swirling in her swimming dance?  Does life ever really move?  Same river, different shores, smells of dead underwater greens, sprouts of the earth rising between the tiny boulders claiming the soil, slurping the water, waving at the cloudy covered sun.  Same scene, different life.

Oh sweet heaven that I was a rock here on this rushing river shore.  Brilliantly still until waters rustled open to soften me, river weeds attached to me green or flattened brown sleep, wet or sun-dried.  Resting still, quiet and motionless surrounded in the river’s constant green gray applause.  All my sharp edges rounded and polished smooth with the pounding rushing bubbling water.

Love pounds us soft.  But our little human heart is not made of stone.  Yet I claim this forever: the Divine in the earth always at my feet, in my blood rushing and cheering me on.  The Deva dances and diamond sparkles are thrown around, seeding ancient cedars that stand and hold the earth and the sky together.

Dancing the Deva home.