always seems to follow The Way;
when the land shifts, as it wills,
whether by the slow and steady heaving,
or whether by a sudden violence,
while the countless ages trundle by,
as the rains and seasons
wax and wane by the long count,
so the river will shift in its course.
it keeps on – a torrent or a trickle – flowing as it must,
where it may;
paying no heed to where it ran yesterday,
giving no thought to how it will reach the sea tomorrow.
the patient work of eons,
it will forswear in a moment.
It will throw itself from the battlements of languid certainty,
crashing over terrible heights
in the epitome of a peasant’s faith,
to roil and churn with borrowed fury
like stirred and newborn Creation
fresh and livid from the womb of chaos.
it will go, even underground,
renounce the sun
and leave the house of the sky,
for the prodigal wandering,
of travelling by secret paths
through darkness and tumult,
follow the way,
even when it knows not the way.
if the way is not always seeking better ways,
it is not The Way.