Rapids

There was a time

I was stagnant—

a swamp sealed by heat,

choked with blue-green algae,

where the air was thick 

with stillness,

mosquitoes tracing

lazy spirals over decay.

Nothing entered or left—

not sound, 

not light,

not even hope

found room to make a ripple.

But now—

I am a mountain river.

Fresh,

alive, 

restless,

forever flowing

forward,

cutting through stone 

and silence alike.

There are rapids—

and submerged logs,

and the faeces from cattle upstream,

yet still I move.

Through murk,

through foam,

through all that tries to slow me—

I move.