What the River Knows

I sat upon the bank atop the mossy bed.
Settling in, I watched it pass, while visions filled my head.
What tales could old man River tell? The stories he must know.
Of seasons, weather, work, and play; of people, friend or foe?

The rains of spring that fall for weeks and raise his levels high,
The welcome heat of summer sun and days of cloudless sky,
Autumn leaves that take a ride upon his steady flow,
Winter’s icy wonderland, replete with glistening snow.

Children playing at his edge beneath Mom’s watchful eye
Find wonder in his treasures as he rushes quickly by.
A fisherman in waders, hopeful for a trout,
Stands patiently awaiting as his line goes in and out.

A trout, who is no dummy, hides behind a rock.
He plans to keep on swimming, not end up in a crock.
A spotted fawn looks brightly at his reflection as he drinks.
Does he wonder how his twin anticipates his every blink?

An ancient, twisted limb dips gnarled fingers in the creek;
After years of current passing through, this old branch is getting weak.
A young man skips a stone, his brow furrowed in thought;
This time in nature helps him think—make decisions that he ought.

The river slips past the beaver lodge, pulling branches as he flows.
Up ahead, beyond the turn, the pawpaws grow and the herons pose.
The river runs all day and night under moon and stars and sun;
Although he runs and ebbs and flows, his work is never done.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. Psalm 23:2