"The River of Trees"

Born in the depths of the earth, I slowly rise as the moon turns round and the cycle of life is found, deep within the fissures in the rocks that appear where man has never been. Then as a child, I slowly develop into a stream that struggles to grow in the thickets below where frogs and fish will spawn in the sand, where they grow and feed others in me, who swim to the sea to be set free.

Now a teenager-much more confident, I become part of the flow into the river that flows along at great speed, cutting sideways, this way and that way, creating horseshoe bends and high flooding plains that rise above me under leaded skies, that bring the rain to flow where forests grow, creating rapids and waterfalls where the shy wind and the trees wave to me, saying thank you, for the nourishment we need in order to grow.

Fish and fowl abound along the side streams that increase my flow, to test my strength as I slow down, then release with crashing waves that cause the foam to go spinning across into the trees, who laugh at me in this funny game that we play until that fatal day! - When disaster appeared, in the form of monstrous mechanical ants that rumbled through the trees to hack them down one by one, stripping them of their arms that so lovingly waved to me.

To my shame, like puppets in a row they are tumbled into me, to be transported to the sea where they end up as ships to sail away to other lands -so far from their homes on the banks where they were happy and gay to play with the saplings all day.

Years pass by while the merciless heat consumes me in this barren desert where nothing grows. Now all that you can see are the skeletons of the fish and fowl that lie in the puddles that feed me. Broken hearted to wither away when death calls to cover, the hurtful memories that are buried in the sand under a petrified weeping willow, now cast into stone lying on top of me.

Sometimes when the moon shines, I feel the dampness in the fissures that used to feed me, but then when the sun appears the moisture turns to dust - like me! - "That once was a river, but now no more to be seen."


413-Words.