I dreamed I was a river in winter

I was a slow, dark thread under ice, not moving but aware — every stone, every root, the weight of snow above. I knew the shape of the banks, the way the water would sing when it finally broke free. And then I felt a man’s hand on the surface, testing the ice with a stick. Not to cross, just to listen. I didn’t want him to know I was alive. But he did — and he smiled, like he’d heard something ancient. When I woke, my fingers were cold. Still are.