The river

There's a river by my house
snaking through the pines,
ducking under the bridge.
In the summer,
its murky waters turn brown,
as chilled as ice
even on a hot day.
Crayfish scurry over algae-covered rocks.
Vibrant sunfish circle in calm pools,
some leaving for the lake,
surging downstream with the current.
A fallen tree hangs over the bend,
the river teasing its low-hanging branches,
its leaning trunk long dead.
A deer drinks from the rapids,
munching the plants on the bank.
A timid fawn prances close to her rear.
It fears to leave her side. 
The river welcomes them to its waters,
sheltering the mother and fawn with high reeds.
In the night they stand in the current, 
the river their safe haven from coyotes,
their frightened hooves snug in the rocks
so they don't slip away downstream.
A lone raccoon prowls the muddy bank.
It tests each step.
Shallow pawprints follow it through the mud.
It scampers onto a rotting log
held in the rocks.
The raccoon dips its paw into the water,
feeling for the familiar shell of its crayfish dinner.
The sun slides over the tips of the pine forest,
leaving the raccoon in fading light.
Munching the critter gripped between wet paws,
it balances on small haunches, 
watching the fish as they dart under his log.
The river grows dark as the raccoon scurries away.
As the sky fades to night, the bank comes alive,
full of tiny sets of glowing eyes,
sipping water from the shimmering stream,
nibbling weeds along the shore,
taking their fill from the nurturing river,
drawn to the rapids,
day and night
till the years slip away,
as unstoppable as the current
carrying the river
past my house,
snaking through the pines.