If I were a river, I would sing the sun up every morning. I would dance with delight over rock and chasm, plunge down in cascading waterfalls, then widen, spreading out between the swollen banks, slowing my pace towards noon to swirl placidly, catch my breath in quieter shallows, I, lost in reverie.
If I were a river, I'd burble and babble and bubble in baby brooks, poke stubby fingers into soft mudbanks, investigating all the secret hollows. I'd sing lustily in mid-afternoon, picking up speed, leaping over boulder and chasm, my voice like the roar of huge engines, like a plane flying low. Later, towards evening, I'd smooth and soften, silky and rippling, inviting toes to dabble.
If I were a river, I'd reflect the moon's midnight smile. Stars would wink at me and I'd wink back, the night our shared secret, while all the humans slept and missed the magic.
If I were a river, I'd begin in the mountains, tumbling down its sides, trickle to torrent, leaping crevasses, gathering force then hurtling over ledges, plunging downwards in waterfalls that merge at the riverbed and, with one intent, swirl slowly, spreading wide, wider, little tributaries venturing off and back, rejoining the common flow, the great push surging to the sea.
When I got there, with a joyous rush I'd know that I was at both the end and the beginning of my journey. Gratefully, I'd sink myself deep into the sand, just waiting for the tide to swoop in and carry me off home.
