Wading in the Sandy River
and watching the waves gently rock and sparkle in sunset,
I picture the Ganges with dead babies and cows floating past.
On a sand bed centered in the river
I see a large tree branch lying,
from which small branches curve in the same direction,
as though this were half the ribcage
of a dead water buffalo lying on its back.
I remember this week’s news:
My Aunt Barbara lying in her condo for five days,
dead and alone.