The River
The sun is getting hotter now,
And snow begins to thaw.
A trickle of water runs down.
Soon, it finds its usual track.
One may call it a stream,
But soon, it swells and starts to tumble
Over the rocks, carving its landscape
Only to join other streams downhill.
It swells into a tumbling river,
Divide into parts, run to a water mill,
With a force to grind the wheat.
The other pours into flatlands,
Where occasionally small lakes form
And living nutrients abound.
Survival depends on strength.
Snails, water fleas and shrimps
Become the food of predators.
Roaches, pikes and other fish
Make heyday of their food.
But they are not the rulers of the river.
Let man find such lakes and ponds.
A large fishing rod and tasty bait
An attraction for the various fish.
Men make a lovely lunch with their catch.
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