What makes the river turn? What makes it make a dramatic swing to the left and continue to flow like a sheet of green and gray satin being pulled rapidly downstream?
I sat on jagged rocks, and listened to the constant rush and murmur of the river. An endless sound, a sound without no end, as endless as the river stretched across the broad horizon. A seagull stood tall and still on the river's edge. It was braving the powerful waters made twists and turns and splashed at its webbed feet until a curious photographer got close. The bird suddenly leapt and took to skies. To greater freedom, while the river continued rushing beneath its spread out wings.
I sat watching as the river turned, as the river chose its paths. At times, together with the wind, the river would splash a few droplets of its abundant water on my cheeks. The sun beat down heavily on my skin, while the breeze was gentle and brisk.
The river turned before my eyes. A part of it chose the smooth course, while the rest, driven by strong currents, tore through hidden boulders and perilous whirlpools, down the wild, wild rapids.
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