Rivers speak in short bursts of water,
hustle preciousness, scurrying
it fast lest its stolen.
Rivers speak in falling, tumbling,
ferocious roars, the real kings of the
jungle that lions and wild elephants,
panthers and serpents
bow to, as they serve themselves
Rivers are open books,
they don't gossip in hushed voices.
You can hear from far the
husky voice and gruff tones
that inspired the Godfather
and Scarface baritones.
Dons of the jungle inspiring
dons off it.
Rivers 'gush and splash',
not aware they are a music bash,
they have been rock consorts from aeons,
they were the first concertos and conductors,
they are nature's maestros playing
an earthly orchestra performed
through mountains and valleys
sans speakers or amplifiers,
reverberating and blending
through miles of quiet.
Like CDs and trees,
we can't cut rivers, thankfully.
Rivers have pride.
They don't weep at all
but flow on even as they fall
down thousands of feet.
We marvel at the majesty
but do they roar because they hurt,
tears hidden in gazillions of water
we consume ultimately?
Ain't a flowing and moving
being not one living?
I have proof because they gently
caress and whisper when I dip
my hand as they drift along.
Thats not all.
Rivers moan when they lose their way
and enter towns against their will and say,
at the *** end of their patience,
the beginnings of destruction.
We cut nature to size, they cut
us open out of turn,
the bloodletting vanishing into
a life force otherwise
rasping and roaring,
splashing and rocking,
now moaning and drowning
people as a last resort
when all hope is lost.
If only we listened.