The water whispers,
trickles, surges, wants to tell
stories old and new.

Against or down the river’s endless flow
But always onward, poles and oars throughout,
A river rat aboard her raft survives
Despite the times the magic seeks her life.
Horrific ancient desperation claws
If unprepared, but shrewdness steers around.

Our heroine stands
stalwart, paws upon the deck,
logs lashed together.

Her family’s plied these courses, rowed around
These pools and rapids, known their tricky flow
Before Deshay was born. She’s dragged her claws
Across the mud and stone that stretch throughout
Its bosky valleys, longs to spend her life
In search of wonder, all that still survives.

Watch the modern world
wriggle in to tame and wreck?
Not while she draws breath!

To city rats, she claims the place survives
As naught but stories, bids them look around
But tells them, “Nothing’s left of rafting life.
The magic’s gone that used to freely flow,
Expanding outward, spreading here throughout.
Believe me, magic doesn’t brush the claws.”

Disappointed sighs
follow when she gives a tour.
Their sadness tugs her.

But no. They can’t be trusted, turn their claws
To gouge and profit. Nothing true survives
Whenever money smiles. It seeps throughout,
Engorged with honey, wraps its tail around,
And never listens, stops the honest flow
Between the banks. It turns away from life.

When money stops by,
it claims the sun always shines.
Fear will blind its eyes.

Deshay accepts the good and bad in life,
The lights that dance and flit between her claws
When twilight stokes the water. Breezes flow,
Enticing any sprite that still survives
To spin and warble, whirl themselves around.
Enchantment breathes and holds the sky throughout.

If city rats saw,
they’d think it cute or friendly.
Some yes, but some no.

The city rats have wards they’ve strung throughout.
Deshay prefers the simple sort of life,
The sort where magic floats and drifts around,
Providing trees for shelter, fish for claws,
And berries freshly plucked. The soul survives,
Embraces secrets, loves their ebb and flow.

Tucking to the bank,
watching the stars flicker in,
she needs nothing else.

She sleeps throughout with stretched and ready claws,
Defends her life where horror still survives,
Expects, with night around her, blood will flow.

Safety and stories
don’t fit too well together:
that’s what water says.

[Michael H. Payne’s poems have appeared in Silver Blade, Star*Line, various Rhysling Award anthologies, and his chapbook Two Strikes and I’m Out from Island of Wak Wak.  His short stories have shown up in places ranging from Asimov’s to Zooscape, his novels have been published by Tor Books, Sofawolf Press and upcoming from Fenris Publications, and his webcomics appear at pandora.xepher.net 4 times a week. Check hyniof.com for more details.]