There are those who are lucky. Their rivers have scarcely any stones. They live a life of luck and ease. Golden they are.
There are those who aren’t. Their rivers rage and toss with leaks in their boat. They scream silently and sink to the rock bottom.
I live a river wild, a river free, for when the storms come my back leans into the wind, my front accepting, soft yet strong, my face gleaming with mona lisa smile, steady eyes seeing the prize, character arise.