The rivers run, dip, and drop,
It’s depth, flows, erodes, and follows,
The fish, feed, breed, and also the fowl.
The scares of droughts, forks, and floods,
Coupled together, it’s beginning and ends,
It’s source and why it bends.

Whether near, far, or in, the rivers run around us,
Called by it’s name, will always serve as a resource.
And what is natural is not a wrong thing,
And the right of way will always be it’s direction.

How fast, how slow, how do I see the path?
How frequent do I follow, or do I figure this, what I follow?
How I do care, it reminds me of life,
How rear, that there are few, that are still,
How short, how long, how high the tide,
How to compare, and would it ever serve itself only.

If never, one not seen, how pure in nature.
Is it the river that belongs to the rains,
Or the rains, that belong to the river?
The pure will only come from above.

How there is a need, lives what is first,
How it changes, grows for life, and in it, a death.
How the roots find the waters,
It lives the strongest from the banks, and shores.
From a seed, to what will drift,
How it will come, and the right one to follow?

©2007, Ron Globe