Swishing and swirling, never to be slowed,
flowing into canyons, never seeing roads,
not respecting boundaries, impossible to contain,
impassible when swollen by God's eternal rain.
Slashing and dashing, wearing down earthen folly,
eching nature's canvas wih hues of subtle umber,
embroidering mountainside with heliotrope and holly,
unrestrained by all attempts to sully or encumber.
Sleepy bergs with unknown names forever to be lost
when furies rage and soon engage their passions,
leaving only ruinous glory, forever slung and tossed,
sated not until the time when Mother takes her ration.
So it was, and so it is, so it shall ever be unchanging,
no need for thought or comment, much less rearranging;
we foolish mortals play our games of tag, of taker or of giver,
but we never learn the lessons taught by nature's smallest river.
Bob Church 12-2-96