I am flowing water.
I fall from the sky in a fine mist, noticed on the face and hands. I collect into puddles and nurture seedlings. In time I collect into streams that meander through thick brush.
Unknown to me, ancient trees drink of me and say a silent thanks.
More flow and I develop into a river. Confined by the banks of propriety, I am none the less a strong force; to be reckoned with.
Small children play at my banks and are delighted and cherished.
I cross the plains in no particular hurry, knowing that my steady progress is assured.
I reach the precipice. Fear grips me. I draw together and try to shrink from the edge! Then I become the waterfall for a brief moment. Dizzy, spinning, released, joyous. Free, in my glory, fully alive.
Crash, into the pond I go in a blaze of foamy excitement. Collecting myself into pools I rest, then press on with relentless (breathless) unhurried placidness. Perhaps rapids next?
Composed as an exercise at The Wall by Tim Rosborough