The Rivers

The river’s a wanderer,
A nomad, a tramp.

He doesn't choose any one place

To set up his camp.

The river’s a winder,

Through valley and hill

He twists and he turns,

He just cannot be still.

The river’s a hoarder,

And he buries down deep

Those little treasures

That he wants to keep.

The river’s a baby,

He gurgles and hums,

And sounds like he’s happily

Sucking his thumbs.

The river’s a singer,

As he dances along,

The countryside echoes

The notes of his song.

The river’s a monster,

Hungry and vexed,

He’s gobbled up trees

And he’ll swallow you next.