Before words, it was cold. Cold and quick, clear, and bruised ice-water over verbal roar before-beginning is loud, confused.
We race from the sprain, following threshold flow buoyed by, being load. Too small to present, to adhere, we’re pulled and shaken gurgle in the stream.
Life, energy and meltwater Beginning violence.
Our words are movement, born by not dying today, by the sway, the stay of judgment.
When to flow, when in torment to dart and eddy in the lee of the spray.
Deepening water in the rolling levels: this is the bedrock swell, our home in language We are the daughter