She Who Thought She Was There once was a river that spread across the land and grass, the mountains and hills, the prairie and plains. Though as little water it would carry, one could not cross the river. Many had tried, and all failed. In the midst of dawn, a log lay between both lands where the sun would rise and where the sun would fall. The log was cut down cut from a tree, the most beautiful tree of all, and polished to connect the two foreign lands. It was a day to rejoice, as all became one and none became whole. But as the flowers wither and die in fall and blossom and wake in spring, so did the tree, the most beautiful tree of all, that joined the land and grass, the mountains and hills, the prairie and plains to one, met its cycle for the weight of all was too heavy to bear. The log withered and dried, dried and died, died and grew, grew and bloomed, bloomed and fruited into its place where it was cut down. And the river with as little water it could carry would soon meet its bridge once again as the sun rose over the land and set over the other side. And both the tree and river, the sky and land, time and space would meet yet again for their own calling of harmony and peace.