Under the blazes Of the sun The rivers leave the hills No one has taught them How to turn, how to double back, Or cross once again Into the valleys They streamed from.

The gray hills listen. They know the twinkle of their own Pale flickers in the night, And the sun that dances Over all the seasons, all is bright.

Bright still is the river, As it comes onward, onward, Until the twist of its curling Fingers shape the land anew.

• Carl Sandburg