There’s that long bend in the river on the way home. Fluffy bursts of milkweed are floating through shafts of sunlight or disappearing where trees reach out from their deep dark roots. 

 Maybe people have to go in and out of shadows till they learn that floating,

that immensity waiting to receive whatever arrives with trust. 

Maybe somebody has to explore what happens when one of us wanders over near the edge and falls for awhile.

Maybe it was your turn.  

William Stafford, Afterwards