River - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The river is a symbol of how far we've come. What was once polluted and dead now teams with the fish we have restored to it. The many rustic hues of the submerged pebbles are more priceless than any jewel. Just to watch the ducklings is a salve to my mind and a reminder to us all that we must protect what we have, cherish it. Everyone did things they weren't proud of in the struggles, we did what we had to do to survive. Now we pray forgiveness and devote our lives to the service of God and the protection of His earth and the life He bestows. Now everyone is a Guardian, we are just raised that way.
Before the troubles the river had been so clear you could see the smoothness of the rocks underneath. On a hot day you could cup your hands a take a draft of the cool water. The banks had been alive with nesting ducks taking advantage of the shade provided by the tall reeds. But in this long decade since the war began it has become full of pollutants. It is the new laundry machine, sewer and dumping ground. Every petty thief and mugger tosses their weapon into its now murky depths after their heist to clean it of fingerprints. Not that the police have the time to look for them anymore. The loss of something that was so precious should sting us all. There are no more fish, and even if there were it wouldn't be wise to eat them. The plant life is dead and from it rises such a stench that nobody walks there unless they are up to no good, so it has become a dangerous place. But in reality the only thing people register is the loss of clean water and the need to dig wells in safe enclaves.
The river passes through the jungle wide and opaque. The water is green, darker in the shadows and more pale in the light, but still green. Against the noise of the birds that are welcoming the new day the gentle murmur of the water can only just be heard, a backdrop to the musical notes coming from above. For all its serenity there is more danger in its swirling depths than the trees behind. Between the crocs and the piranhas I don't even want to get my boots wet. But in this wooden boat it will take me miles in the direction I wish to travel with little effort on my part.
Sandy bank, nesting holes for martins (birds), grassy sloping bank, water flowing smoothly, gravel shallows, shallow shelf, wide still pool at edge, narrow foreshore at foot of steep bank, patch of reeds, cold water.
The river is a sleeping cobra. It lies across the land in smooth seductive curves, beautiful in the morning light, cool and innocuous. Yet it hides a myriad of dangers, its swift undertow being the least of your concerns. Just yards around the next bend is the largest waterfall in the region; if you survive the fall you can enjoy drowning in the plunge pool as you circulate like laundry in a machine- round and round until you deteriorate. The water is icy even at this time of year since the water comes from the alpine melts as much as from the rain. Being the eldest and heaviest I will have to go first to secure a rope on the other side, then the others will follow knowing that if they loose their footing at least there is something to hold on to until help arrives...in the form of me. I can't wait.
The river is a trickle. After so many months of no rain it is barely a stream moving listlessly over the stones it usually disregards in its swift passage to the ocean. There is no wading over it, no swimming, no jumping in, now we can step across it and still have dry feet. The marsh plants on the banks are wilted and weak. The edges of their blade-like leaves are yellowed where they should be green and they hang close to the ground.
When we get to the river my heat sinks. It is wider than I've ever seen, flowing swift and strong. The water is a turbid brown from eroding the banks it usually passes by so softly. Branches have been blow in by the storm. The water eddies around them, but not that relaxed way water usually does, but harshly, more like mini vortexes. In the rain that still falls the surface is pitted so thickly that the radiating ripples cancel one another out. Adding to the torrent coming from the stone-grey sky is the April melt from the mountains to the East. This river is not what we prepared ourselves for, the brutal swell before us makes the boat we have pulled with an old war-horse look like it will simply be our coffin, carrying us out to sea rather than to the opposite bank. Tommy looks at me, his eyes say it all. If we turn back we've doomed the troops waiting for our report, if we go forwards we most likely doom ourselves too. Die by court marshall in shame or by exposure, we ready the boat.
River is soft, wending its way between the banks that are the new vivid green only the springtime can bring. In the post dawn light the water doesn't sparkle like it does at noon, instead it is mellow like a Monet painting. Up ahead is the bridge I stand on every morning, it's basic and functional, beams of wood from bank to bank with a rail on each side. Already my eyes are scanning the ground for sticks, I'm way to old to be playing pooh sticks but that's never stopped me before. I spy a rotten branch, human snapped, likely dropped by some dog going by the teeth marks in it. I snap it over and over until I can't get the leverage for another break. I wipe the damp fragments of bark onto my windbreaker- in my mind I can see my husband roll his eyes in horror and stifle a grin.
Current deceptively swift and strong, vicious undertow, deep, clear, weeds at edges, wide..
The river has swollen past the high marks of previous years and the children are giddy with excitement. They sense the tension in the adults and convert it into adrenaline. Every able body is out lowering the embankment on the north side; twenty years ago they did it in the same circumstances. If we can't save both sides we let one flood in the hope that it saves the other. Since then the newer homes on the other side have been built on stilts and all the grain silos have raised floors. There are older homes that won't recover, but they know the community will help them rebuild, this time on stilts like the others. The water is so thick it's like gravy and it moves with a power we haven't seen in many a year. In a few short weeks it will be our gentle friend once more, sparkling prettily, but for now it is the enemy and must be treated with the respect any formidable foe deserves.
In the blinding light of the August afternoon the river is like a semi-molten mirror. I can feel its coolness even before I flick it with my hand, sending droplets scattering over the surface like rain. Its depth is deceptive, mostly because it is as clear as a mountain spring. Every rounded stone on the bottom, every fish, is rendered in perfect clarity. I don't have time to wade in today, yet I'm already stripping off my sandals. The grass on the bank is sun-warmed beneath my feet and even after just one step I'm knee deep, the water flowing around my limbs, drinking away my body heat. I want to stand here all day but I'm already pushed for time and this is no weather for running or even walking fast.
Bank descends gently to a shallow shelf of stones, small dark fish dart over the browns of the river gravel between shadows. The river flows, seemingly endless, tireless, effortless, fluid grace, eddies curl and vanish, ragged grass banks like a nibbled biscuit, heron waits, a living statue, poised on one leg, patient as the breeze, patient as the river itself.
Fed fat by mountain streams, the river poured, a yeasty flood, over the ford, a roaring terror of swift waters.
We traveled on, past the settlement that lay behind Santa Rosa, the sloping shacks and the huts on stilts and the rows of overturned canoes on the riverbank. We passed the gate-like entrance of a green lagoon, and pushed on, struggling in the river that brimmed at our bow. It was hotter here, for the sun was above the palms and the storm clouds had vanished inland. There were no mountains or even hills. There was nothing but the river bank of palms and the low bushes and the yellow-bark trees, and the sky came down to the tree tops. The high muddy river had flooded the bushes on the bank,
The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing on rapidly below; and all the other sounds were lost in the noise of it's splashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles,
...Unlike Riverview the land is a flat, wide valley floor with a lazy meandering river curling through it...We can take the garden path and head up to the bridge before hunkering left and following the river for a way. Sometimes there are ducks, mallards mostly, with their iridescent green heads, swimming and turning tail up, beautiful. It’s so quiet too, did I say that already?
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
softly meandering, lazy river, lush grassy banks, tall elegant bull rushes, shimmering in late morning sun, shallow banks, otters play, silver carp, river trout. Small swift river, steep banks, hurriedly rushing past, white water, rocks, glinting in the moonlight.
The river is a symbol of how far we've come. What was once polluted and dead now teams with the fish we have restored to it. The many rustic hues of the submerged pebbles are more priceless than any jewel. Just to watch the ducklings is a salve to my mind and a reminder to us all that we must protect what we have, cherish it. Everyone did things they weren't proud of in the struggles, we did what we had to do to survive. Now we pray for forgiveness and devote our lives to the service of God and the protection of His earth and the life He bestows. Now everyone is a Guardian, we are just raised that way.