| Some Rivers By Frank Asch Some rivers rush to the sea, They push and tumble and fall. But the Everglades is a river with no hurry in her at all. Soaking the cypress that grows so tall; nursing a frog, so quiet and small; she flows but a mile in the course of a day, with plenty of time to think on the way. But how can she cope with the acres of corn and sorroful cities that drain her? Does the half of her that's left think only of the past? Or does she think of her future and how long it will last? Some rivers rush to the sea. They push and tumble and fall. But the Everglades is a river with no hurry in her at all. |
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