The river ran fast, cold
and clean,
all the way to the gravel and sand bottom.

Spring fed for most of its length
it flowed strong
even in August
when everything else was dry and all burnt up.

Like most,
it'd ease along, all calm
until the next bend,
then rear up and get white and loud,
sometimes branching into narrow channels,
cluttered by rocks and twists,

crashing and tumbling
until finding it's legs,
it'd smooth out again
for awhile.

If you weren't careful,
you'd dump in any of those places
and like the trees and branches we'd see along the way,
jam up and drown
in the crystal clear
and rushing cold.

The other choice
was to melt your canoe
into the current
and float along
like water itself,
twisting and turning with the waves,
moving with the current,
barely leaving a mark
on the rippling surface behind you,

If done right,
the fast white turns and drops
were just places to coast
without concern,

not tiring,
not fighting,
letting the walls
between you and the river
collapse,

and maybe
just as much as you became
it,
so it
became
you.

That''s the secret,
you know.

Not fighting,
nor going limp and helpless,
but joining in and with the current,
so that the flowing of the water
becomes the flowing
of your heart.