The Riparian Path

At dawn, where earth meets shy water,  

the path stretches like a quiet hum.  

Locals tread it softly, dog's leash taut,  

their laughter a murmur among reeds.  

Herons linger, elegant as sketched secrets,  

their beaks patient like unturned pages,  

skimming surface ripples for tiny truths.  

Mist curls over the river, a breath, unseen.  

Everyone knows this path isn’t paved,  

yet it carries the weight of mornings—  

hope tied into sneakers; stories in paws.  

Each step whispers: you’ve been here before.  

The sun edges upward, a painter’s hand,  

tinting wings with gold and long shadows.  

It’s not about where this path leads,  

but how it cradles the in-between.