Four Sierra rivers flowing cold and crystal clear,

Draining snowpacks before man could dream.

I swam in the Stanislaus before there was hair on my chin.

I pitched my tent by the Tuolumne and it sang a lullabye.

I tasted the Merced as it played-sprayed all misty upon me.

I cooled my feet in the San Joaquin while bucks and nymphs

  cavorted in its pools, oblivious to wants and cares or any

  supposed reality that boxes and contains.

Rivers that flowed beside, in front, behind and through me.

Rivers so old, they make you young.

Rivers that supply so much more than water.

Move on, sweet rivers.