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The Story Of A River

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A river runs south. Straight along the bends of the land. The sand that fills the bottom is golden, strategically covering the rocks that threaten the feet of those who walk the river. This river is dark blue; dark blue and green.


The water sparkles with hope.


Hope and confidence.


Confidence of a better place. A better time.


The trees hug each other, each one connecting and intertwining with the other. They surround the river on either side; their branches like veins in the body. Working together to complete something magnificent.



Their leaves fall down, floating gracefully to the empty canvas that was the forest floor.


Over the hills, water flows down, gradually smoothing over the rocks and stones over time.


Erasing the abrasiveness as time continues on.


The structure of the river is set. The pressure of the land dictating where it will go, where it’s supposed to go, forcing it into a set direction.


Still, the soul of the river is free. The ability to decide how it will flow along remains its own.


As the sun’s constant heat beats down upon it, the river smiles. The water glistens brightly. Hope more powerful than any strife.


Through the blistering heat, the river floats on.


Through the dry spells. Through the crisp, sharpness of autumn.


And even still, through the acrid frosts that of which are winter, the river continues on.


And then finally the river ends.


It ends at the ocean, where thousands of others are waiting.


Waiting to welcome the life that was once within.


And the new lives pouring down the streams to come.





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