And the elder listens to the muddy river
and the cottonwoods whisper without haste
as he plays a harmony with his flute
from which the pith of self has been erased.
And he, the younger one, sits stunned
by pain older than the first word uttered;
how can he show his love to someone
who has buried so many lovers.
And the river flows as the two embrace
and cottonwoods sigh at their fate
as high notes soar to the heavens
and the mayflies rise to mate.
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