Where the River Keeps Prayer

At the crossing, the river wears the names of all it has carried. I dropped a palmful of millet for the birds that stitched the banks, and watched the current take the grain as though it were teaching blessing. There is a holiness in moving water: it does not clutch the shore, it does not ask the stone to stay. It kneels only long enough to learn the shape of departure, then rises, clear as breath, and keeps going. When I left, the path behind me was already being remade. The river had taken my silence and turned it into weather.