There is in me a rushing river. It flows and caps and spills over its banks. It dries and trickles and meanders the smooth stones and sand. The waters are warm and calm and frigid and crashing. There are eddies that spin, with debris and filth, hiding vibrant growing life and scaled treading trophies. There are forks that carve paths through ancient rotting ridges of formidable spires, that jut out with sharp edges, worn smooth, at the waterline, by time and temperament. The depths of the river know no bounds and the secrets that lurk there are dark and leering. The sun sparkles across ripples of joyous smooth, clear water, moving, ever moving toward a future unknown. The shallows team with bright flitting life, darting, swimming, smooth as the cascade of colored stones they hide behind. Rushing, ever rushing, swirling and churning; taking in fresh movement from glacial streams and cleansing rains. The voice of the rushing waters roars in my ears. The haunting moan tugs at my very being. And so, I must, I just must listen and obey. The mist above capping rapids clears my mind as the groan of longing pierces my heart. I must, I must…write.