My mother once wrote a poem about rivers.
They were women, she wrote.
Starting out small girls, tiny streams decorated with wildflowers.
They were torrents, gouging paths through sheer granite, flinging themselves off cliffs, fearless and irresistible.
Later, they grew fat serviceable, broad slow curves carrying commerce and sewage, but in their unconscious depths catfish gorged, grew the size of barges, and in the hundred-year storms, they rose up, forgetting the promises they made, the wedding vows, and drowned everything for miles around.
Finally they gave out, birth-emptied, malarial, into a fan of swamps that met the sea.
White oleander – Janet Fitch