The clouds were reflected in the ripples on the still moving water. The river is wide, perhaps forty feet across, with red muddy banks mounting to green fields, the occasional tree balanced precariously between standing and falling in; in some cases, gravity has won, and another giant has fallen, though it lives on. When the sun shines, the light hits the southern bank, and the northern bank houses many fish in its shadow. It is a quiet river, though the water moves quickly, deceptively so.
A stick floats down stream, moving like a paddler in the continuous flux. Always the same, and ever-changing. The many bends create eddies that spin the stick through the water, rocks jutting up to reveal beauteous danger. The stick floats on, not worried about where it will end up, not caring what will happen to it. Simply content in the new adventures each bend in the stream brings. Terrifying or brilliant, calm or apprehensive, the stick keeps moving.