the rock river
The depth of the rocky river is not imporant. Whether shallow or deep, it simply wants to share its existence, with me, with the weeping willow I sit beneath, with the scaly carp that swims its waters. During spring, when snow melt is heavy, the river selflessly spreads its wealth to the nearby willows and oaks as it floods, it shares itself with the toads and salamanders that need its waters for egg laying. It is not the intelligence of the river that the trees care about, it is the extent to which the river loves its web that makes it so wonderful.