<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=us-ascii"></head><body style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><div dir="auto" style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><div class="gmail_default"><font size="4">Where the river ran</font></div><div class="gmail_default"><br><font size="4">Where the river used to run,<br>there is only sand<br>and things people lost from boats long ago,<br>buried flip-flops and sunglasses.<br><br>Summer Sundays were for floating <br>in a reliable current,<br>guided by gravity and longing <br>for something that would turn<br>an ordinary day in August<br>into a highlight in the Book of Memories:<br><i>that was a special day.</i><br><br>There is silence now<br>where the river ran through,<br>as wind blows dust<br>like pyre smoke.<br><br>Summer Sundays are for gratitude,<br>for the fleeting moments of joy<br>that we collected like polished pebbles,<br>when there were sun hats and ice cream<br>and water.</font><br></div><div class="gmail_default"><font size="4"><br></font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font size="4"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- Alia Ayer </font></div></div></body></html>