Yara

She pressed it into the child’s hand.

The river rose to meet her palm.

It whispered it through the reeds on the morning she was born, a soft yahr-rah that rolled over the water like a stone skipping toward the horizon. Her mother, kneeling on the mudbank with blood on her hands and joy splitting her face, heard it. And so the girl was called Yara, which in the old tongue meant small water . She pressed it into the child’s hand

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the clay bird from years ago. It was still soft, still damp, still faintly breathing through the tiny slits on its sides. Her mother, kneeling on the mudbank with blood

“Now you listen,” Yara said. “The river knows your name too.” It was still soft, still damp, still faintly

“Yara,” the child asked, “how did you save the river?”