What the River Knows by Barbara F. Lefcowitz

The river remembers nothing
about the string of white pebbles
that moments ago
gleamed from the edge
of the bank where I kneel.
Nor does the river recall
the splash of the child¹s shoe
when it slipped from that bank
the feel of its tongue
that now licks the current
bearing it downstream.
The river knows nothing
of its own water¹s shape
how it spread briefly
to hold my hand
then reassumed its fluency
which is all that it knows
even as it rushes
closing in on that place
where kelly-green chemicals
rest in beds of thick oil
waiting to make their kill.