What the River Knows

They told the river to run straight.

Straight. Like somebody drew her with a ruler and dared her to disobey. They brought concrete. They brought iron. They stood on the bank in their good shoes and said, this is how water behaves.

The river said nothing. Rivers don't argue. She just kept doing what she'd always done, cutting sideways through the valley, curling around the big stubborn rocks like she had all the time in the world. Because she did.

Oh, they tried to tame her. They dumped their harsh wash in her, tried to strip her clean, tried to scour the dark richness out of her bed until she ran clear and empty, the way they liked her. Clear. Empty. Manageable.

But a riverbed remembers. Underneath, the silt stayed dark as good soil. The stones stayed smooth from all that turning. And when the rain came, and it always comes, hammering the dust, smelling of hot rock and pennies, she swelled. She got fat and brown and loud, took up the whole valley floor like she owned it, which she did, and every tree on her banks stood a little straighter just from being near her.

So keep your straight lines. Keep them. She'll keep her bends. Every curve a choice she made on purpose. Every coil saying what her mouth never had to: I will not be made small to make you comfortable.

She doesn't ask. She doesn't explain. She just moves, old as weather, and the ground she crosses can't help but grow.