The river wears on – from the beginning, till now, till the end.
She regarded the waters slipping by, quietly and unobtrusively. No one paid any attention. No one
saw. Yet, how deceptive it all was! She watched as the rowers carved out powerful strokes across the
cool surface. All in sync, all in beautiful motion.
They look so strong. Each second the oar strikes incisively into the water’s body, cuts across its
insides, pulling it back up again in a disintegrated mass of fine mist and spray. They seem like masters of the waters.
But she knows.
People will marvel at its beauty and laud its quietness. They will see the river and think it befitting the quaint town. But they don’t know what she knows. The resilience, the weightiness, in its reticence.
The river wears on, in a stream of time.
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