oak branch

The morning after Amy had failed her English Romantic Literature midterm, Sophie bounded up from the living room windowsill where she had been waiting for Anna and ambushed Amy before she got to the front door.

"You don't need to tell me what's going on," she said, her arms folded, her face still creased by the extreme angle of the pillow on the windowsill. "I already know."

Amy went to get both of them a cup of green tea. It was obvious Sophie wasn't going to let Amy leave until she had had her say. Sophie followed her into the kitchen. "You think you've found Anna on the internet, don't you?--or at the very least, shall we say traces of Anna?"

Amy nodded.

"You haven't, you know. Those electronic monstrosities don't know the first thing about someone's identity. Believe you me on that score." Sophie snorted into her tea. "Listen to me and listen good. An acorn disappears into the ground, and a century later, you have an oak tree."

Amy shook her head as she grabbed her book bag. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"You already know what it means, child." Sophie held the front door open for her.

drops fall / into the swirling/ stream/ their sides dissolving /into each other/ each rolls off / a thin / oak branch.

the word is / the sound / of water / dripping from/ ancient symbols / tiny particles / of merging /

Follow us all: Amy/Anna, Sophie/Yuki, Kit/Richard, minor characters or sift through water leavings and river journeys.