Draining the "River" Part 1 out of 3.

Love for the water; its waves; its mutability.
Exiting wet, we feel the air clearly.
This reminding us of our flesh freshly.

Under it, finding a restrictive form of freedom.
Submerged, discovering a brand of weightlessness.

Bliss for some amidst the fish perhaps.
Rivers with currents we cannot control.
Inside this aqua blue we sometimes swim.
Never was it an environment intended for us.
Grand adventures for some, conditions permitting.

Over it, water, have many endeavored and crossed.
Using creations of wood from trees grown from it itself.
Rain feeding the greenery, rain feeding it so.

Enticing you may have found a queer, flowing creek on your left.
Years spent paddling out to these I have, rarely pleased.
Every time, confusion claiming my intentions.
So I set to drain these, the diseased, by damming them as a beaver.

Boldly I gather twigs, planks, and logs.
Accumulated for but one purpose.
Credently craved truths surface as I construct.
Kinds of these streams I have found unnatural.

To dig the land with a purposeless gash for what?
Olden days driven away, I say allow only natural gravitational gushing.

To forgive and forget those that carved these etchings, I find myself diverting and directing one of my own, the purpose perhaps not even noble.
Having nothing but a shovel, I remove earth for months to drain two and redirect them back to the ocean from where they originate.
Even as I do so, I weep with regret.

Rigid in demeanor I still stick... always.. to the plan and procedure.
Inside of me, I feel solemnity creeping upward into my lungs.
Grossly these things were crafted, grossly they will leave.
Hot and sweaty my body as I forcibly move earth to make way for these trenches which will gush with liquid toward their origin.
Then, I will assuredly dam the other ends, ending the cycle.

Bringing with me my message to the surrounding communities who no longer use the irrigation techniques of times long past, only half see my goal.
Understanding, some, and reverent a few.
Those, those who I love dearly.

I love them dearly.

Destined to never have drank from these salty waters, no creature ever had.
Obliterate instead have they, foliage in their path.

Final touches being made to the river to my left.
Every one of them ever important.
Every one of them never null.
Longing to return to an uncorrupt calling.

Yes, this is but the first to be dammed, the second perhaps not so simple.
Onto a barely trekked path will I next embark.
Upward and across with tics and cringes I foresee.
Roaring yet silent will the next task be perceived, if at all.

Pondering I expect to put to rest.
Afterward I will entail on the necessary conclusion.
Inward driven always, outward exerted permanently.
Novices will never see and yet I remain content.