The River

And she walked out into the the cold, hands tucked into her coat to ward off the chill.
She did not follow a specified path, but rather wandered among the trees and between the bushes, until such a time as she came to the river.
It was still moving even at this time of the year. The smaller streams had long since frozen over; several small children could always be caught skating over their glassy surfaces.
But not this river. Ever still, it flowed with quiet consciousness, snaking its way through the countryside, bringing life to all the cities it passed through.
Most people never thought of the river.
But she did.
She loved its crystal clearness - you could see right to the bottom even on the most cloudy of days, clear as the truth men seek for all their lives. And it was deep, deep enough to support a man if he dared to lay upon it in the summertime and just float happily along it, carried by it throughout time.
And when the winds blew troubled, it kept still its guiding force, and carried the goods from the farmer's fields to the markets where they could be sold to the hungry families who depended on them.
And she loved the river for one thing most of all: it flowed of its free will. From time to time men would build dams to block it, or fill it so full of logs headed to the saw mill that you could hardly tell it was a river anymore. But still it flowed, and wound its own path through the land - every year it grew a bit more, and if something blocked its path it simply found its way around, and if it waited long enough, the logs covering its true nature would be taken out of its source, and its own strength would wash any remaining debris to the shore where it was out of its way, and it would revert back to its original form, its truest form, pure and simple, existing for its own beauty, peace, and life.
Yes, she loved the river.