The River Mistress And Her Beguiled Suitor

There he sat, alone, his bronzed patina enhanced by the sun’s charging rays.  Mindfully at task, he read the water, and knew it personally.  Every riff, run and eddy, the children of this great river, had personality.  Like their mother, the barometer was the only true indicator of their vacillating moods.

This was his river.  No, he did not own the rights to her waters.  Nor did he hold title to the land which embraced her form.  He had grown to love her and her fickle ways.  Her currents, like her emotions, flowed without remorse.

She flowed through him, capturing his soul like no other woman.  Her kiss moistened his parched lips.  Occasionally she yielded to his advances, allowing him to plunge into her depths.   She bore him fruits from deep within, bringing nourishment to both his body and soul.

He shared her beauty with those willing to accept her ways.  To know her was to live, to accept the unknown and to love unconditionally.  She could be harsh, her emotional torrents exploding in manic episodes, lambasting only those closest to her.  Weathering the rapid cycling of her tempestuous moods was rewarded by brief, intimate encounters with her placid and nurturing alter ego.

Because of him, others came to love her, and to respect her frenzied passions.  Her cool waters sustained life, while her voluptuous swells brought forth sustenance from deep below.  In her own narcissistic way, she loved in return those who loved her.

There is no impediment to her will.  She is not to be trusted, but respected in her raw and untamed power.  He was drawn in by her enrapturing trance, and committed to her shores.  There he sits, attending to her whims, led only by her capricious manifestations.

—George MacMillan