The river flows home, and nothing can stop it.

High in the mountains, surrounded by sunlight, lush grass, and lazy soaring birds, the river is born, and it is a quiet affair, and the wind rustles the grass and blows feathered clouds down from the distant mountaintops, and the world smells new.

From the lake, the water meanders and forms herself into a river and slips down the earth, and as she falls, gently washing over the rock and the dirt and the earth, she twists and turns, and she follows a path carved out in ancient times by her sisters, one that turns and flows back on itself and has left horseshoes of water, daughters of a distant past, to rest in peace and sunlight.

Birds, rabbits, and herds of deer drink from the river, and fish jump and splash in the cool of the water, and the world thanks the river for the life it brings, and the river smiles, and the river laughs, and the river sings.

The water meanders through the world and finds friends, sisters, and they converge, they join, they flow together and become one river, and make their way together through the rock and the earth and the waving water grass, and the river is content and peaceful as she drifts through the world with her sisters.

But soon she meets a city.

The river slips under a wall of stone and grows cold, and this place is strange, and the river is flanked with concrete and docks and crossed with bridges like shackles, and the fish grow quiet, and the deer disappear, and the river wonders where the songbirds have gone, but as night falls on the river, the river understands.

On one side of the river, a city thrives in a chaos of metal and steal and concrete and glass, and voices, so many voices, but on the other side of the river is silence and cold and stillness.

And ruins.

Men in the river.

Cold men and cold red women thrown into the river to sink to the bottom, and fishes with too big teeth, and dark animals find meals, and the river wraps her arms around these cold, cold men, and she mourns for something she does not understand, for she is just a river, but she is now red.

The river slips under another wall and leaves the men and the women behind, their arms lifted in the water, suspended in time, and they drift like they are dancing, but then they stop, and the river tries to bring them with her, but they cannot come.

And the rivers meet, and together the sisters mourn.

Together they leave the city behind them, and they slip silently through the tall grass and down the curve of the earth, and they wonder at the sunlight and the shadows, how can they, the sunlight and the shadows, be so intertwined and connected and tangled while they are so different.

Soon the songbirds return, and the deer find their way back to the muddy banks, and they give life to the river, as the river gave to them, and the river remembers, and the river sees sunshine and shadow as two sides to the same.

The river flows and flows until the trees give way to sky and tall grass and the smell of salt and wind, and they flow and turn and remember, and the sky grows bigger and bigger and bigger and the river wider and wider and wider until there is nothing but water and sky and singing gulls and salt and light.

And the river drifts home, intertwined and connected and tangled with her sisters, and she sings.