How to Teach A River to Write

Suddenly the door opened:
in walked a statue-perfect woman
with a large snake on her head.

No, too abrupt; make it more gradual.

One day, the river swelled up and overflowed its banks,
and flooded the whole area
where the tree shrews were constructing their labyrinths..,
damn: I forgot to mention the labyrinths.

'Suddenly the door opened;'
I liked that part;
the story was doing fine, up to there.

Suddenly the door opened, and in marched
The River, vocabularies astrew and niceties asunder,
demanding to know The Time.

When a river asks you The Time, as some of you
(the weathered ones) will know,
it is no frivolous matter,
and of course there is only one appropriate answer,
to be uttered immediately;
which is to say, in fact to shout,
no, to holler,
to practically bellow,
(while gesticulating with huge gestures and wild hair,)
NOW!

'When?' murmurs the river,
coy now,
languid.

Now, you reply: Now so Now,
and Now and Now, and especially ...Now!

Oh God, murmurs the river;
I just love it.

(NOW is the one word rivers love to hear.)