What feeds the river? It begins where it ends: the sea.
Along my banks, I will meet towns filled with labor, and families alone at rest under tree canopies. A slow trickle, sneaking through a meadow, may provide just enough for small creatures.
When small, am I weak? Is there only power in my current? Tell that to the groove I have worn along this flat stone.
Even my small acts, Lord, let them be mighty.