Love is like a river. When blocked by debris it forges a new route. When it appears frozen on the surface, it moves still below the surface of the ice, swift as fins on a fish. Love is like a river. Love holds nothing back but gives all, rounds every corner. Hoard love in a Hoover dam of thirst and you damage the entire ecosystem. Yet the beaver tames the river just long enough to raise its young, then lets the river unwind. Everything depends on the river. Love is like a river. When you are hot, it soothes your ankles. When you are lost, the river says: “Follow me.” All of life, and even the earth itself, depends on the river. Because the river loves all, it nurtures both trout and blue heron. The river holds two opposing elements in its mind and resolves any conflict by giving itself over and over, drop by drop over to the hard heart of the rock, so that even bedrock, worn down by the river, is softer than the human heart. The river folds itself between a rock and the hard place of your heart—that parched watering hole— where love crafts the riverbed. Love is a river.