I watch as it ripples
catching the light in peeks,
swallowing sound as it dips,
humming lullabies to the land
where we buried so many bones
of ancestors adorned for the journey.
The soles of their shoes,
beaded in intricate patterns,
leave no footprints where they walk 
like deer that traverse cement gardens.
Nothing grows here, in this place of new gods.
Nothing flows except the septic tank
seeping into the earth,
escaping this farm where fate
follows invisible paths back to the river.
Maybe the ripples will call us home
and life will change,
and my farm will grow.