The River That Forgot Its Banks
“I don’t remember being this wide,” said the river.
She flowed past stones she had known all her life, but today they felt smaller. Farther apart. The water touched places it had never touched before.
“Slow down,” begged a smooth grey rock, half-submerged. “You’re tickling my top.”
“I’m trying,” the river replied. “But there’s too much of me.”
Upstream, rain had arrived faster than usual. It had not waited for the soil to prepare. It had not paused to listen.
Now the river carried everything with her—leaves, twigs, bits of earth, and stories she did not fully understand.
On the bank, a frog named Kavi watched nervously.
“This feels wrong,” Kavi croaked. “The water’s climbing.”
A turtle lifted his head slowly. “It happens sometimes.”
“Yes,” Kavi said. “But not like this.”
Nearby, reeds bent and whispered.
“We’re holding as much as we can,” they said, roots tightening in the mud. “But the soil is tired.”
Deep beneath the riverbed, Luma the worm felt the pressure.
“The water is pushing hard,” he murmured. “The soil is slipping in places.”
Far away, in the forest, Maya the deer lifted her head.
“It’s starting,” she said softly.
Back at the river, the water pressed outward again.
“I don’t want to spill,” the river said. “But I don’t know where else to go.”
“You used to know,” said the stones.
“Yes,” the river replied sadly. “When the banks were strong.”
Once, trees stood close, their roots woven deep. Grass softened the edges. Soil drank slowly.
But many roots were gone now. The banks felt thin.
A fish darted past, eyes wide. “Where’s my hiding place? The current’s too fast!”
“Stay near me,” said the turtle. “I’m heavy. I remember slow water.”
The river tried to listen.
She eased herself where reeds still stood. She curved gently where stones guided her. In places where the earth still held together, she behaved.
But where the soil had hardened, where roots no longer spoke to one another, she spilled.
“I’m sorry,” the river whispered as water slipped into the fields beyond her old path.
A crab clung to a rock. “You’re flooding our homes!”
“I know,” said the river. “I’m not angry. I’m overwhelmed.”
Rain slowed. Finally, it stopped.
The river breathed, long and deep.
Water began to settle back, returning where it could.
Mud remained. Silence followed.
Kavi hopped closer to the edge. “Will this happen again?”
The river did not answer right away.
“Unless something changes,” she said at last, “I think it might.”
That evening, a child stood near the riverbank, shoes muddy, eyes thoughtful.
“The water came too far today,” the child said.
The river listened closely.
“It didn’t mean to,” said the wind gently.
The child crouched and touched the damp soil. “It feels loose here… but hard there.”
The river felt hope stir—small, but real.
Upstream, roots still held.
Underground, worms continued their quiet work.
In the forest, animals adjusted their paths.
The circle was strained—but not broken.
As night settled, the river whispered to the stones:
“I will remember my banks again… if they remember me.”
🌱 The Invisible Circle – For You
Nature does not rush to harm.
It rushes when it is not held.
When land, water, and life work together,
even the strongest flow knows where to stop.
Review THE INVISIBLE CIRCLE Story 7 · River.