It began with a drop,
Likely from an icicle
It soon became a trickle
Joined like-minded rivulets
Began to whisper epithets
Seemed to speak of revolution
All while becoming institution
Wrinkled and wore the crust
Drew out detritus and dust
Furrowed fields of mountains
Found fury in rapid fountainsSoothed the jagged young rocks
Smoothed the thirst of our flocks
Bore wary travelers on its back
A friend to those with the knack
Met the foolish with abhorrence
Lent them wisdom by its torrents
Below rolling hills it slowed
Its frightful fervor mellowed
Wound idly through the plains
Brought news of upstream rains
Released the soil bound and sworn
Engendered a harvest to be born
Flooded full, swollen brown
Rolling still trough to crown
It carried on; on and down.
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