O how the water sings on down
Past the levee, past the bridge
Her little meanders, cow licks
Catching the sun and her skin
Brown with silt suspended
By the A of her voice.
O how the sand and branches
Have collected against the levee
But in places the rocks are scoured
Exposing shells from another age
A long day ago in another song
Dropt in time by her voice.
O how the cottonwood waves
Along the bank to the sky,
Water pulled up the voiced columns
Pipes sounding deep then up
To the twittering piccolos
And dispersed by the hot breath of her voice.
The real river is the flow of energy from the sun that is interrupted by the chemistry of the Earth and used to do work. We are the products of that work as is all life. Ultimately all that energy is dissipated as heat, random motion. As far as we can tell at some point there will be no flow of energy for what ever remains to grab on to and do work. So all we can really do is enjoy our privileged float along the river of entropy.
We can hope for more. Hope that when we die we will sleep in Christ until the end of time. Or hope that we will be reincarnated even into a snail. Or hope, as Paul Davies seems to, that some quantum entanglement will lead us to the Omega Point where we will become part of some sort of big eye looking back at itself, the self aware Universe.
Yes hope. But don't forget to enjoy the float.