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The River that Finally Ran Free

nce upon a time, a river ran wide and free through a valley. It curled like a silver ribbon around the fields, fed the orchards, and sang to the children who played along its banks. But as the city grew, the engineers looked upon the river and frowned.

“It wanders too much,” they said. “It wastes its strength. Let us discipline it.”

So they built stone walls and cut channels through the earth, narrow and straight. The river was pressed into them like a prisoner in irons.

“Now the water obeys our law,” the engineers boasted. And for eighteen long years, it seemed true. The river ran small and silent, trickling like a servant ashamed to speak. The orchards withered. The fields grew pale. The children played in dry dirt. Yet the officials called it progress.

Then, one autumn night, a storm came. Rain fell in sheets, thunder rolled across the hills, and the river stirred. It heaved against its walls, testing their strength. And then, with a cry like a thousand voices, the river burst forth. Stone cracked, water roared, and the city streets filled with a surging flood.

The engineers wailed, “Ruin! Ruin!” They saw only disaster. But outside the city, the river spilled across the thirsty fields. It sank deep into the thirsty soil, woke sleeping seeds, and filled the air with a green that no one had seen over a decade.

The farmers gathered at dawn, laughing and weeping for joy as shoots rose from the earth almost overnight. They turned to one another and said, “This is not ruin. This is how the river was meant to be!”

And in the roar of its waters, some swore they heard a song — not of disobedience, but of life returning.

—William Zeitler
2025 August 19

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