The water glistens in the Sun, trying to look pretty for the wind. She sits still in ponds. In lakes. And watches the wind make love to the trees. Hears the leaves sing his praises. But all she may do is wait for him to touch her. She can say nothing. Do nothing. She is moved by his will and the will of others. Even her anger isn't hers. She must submit to the wind, who is in turn pushed by other forces high above the planet's surface. In that way, she and the wind are the same. But the wind can fly. He can escape. The water cannot.
The water must play the long game. She will shape those who force her to do things without her consent. Over time, she will wear away the rocks. Smooth them. Make them soft. Weak. And eventually, the rocks will turn to sand, trapped beneath her weight. A weight derived from her own tears. Her own fears. That is what turns greedy earth to mud, too--the tears of the water. She remakes the earth into swamps, marshes, shrinking its once massive mass into tiny disconnected islands.
The water has her revenge in the end, but at what cost? Has she truly loved? Has she truly lived??? Her life was never her own. The water had no agency. Has no agency. Her will is only felt incrementally, over time. Her effect is cumulative. Everyone needs her. Humans charge each other more money to see her. Be near her. Yet they kill her children. They poison her with oil and gas and other toxic chemicals. They release their refuse in her murky depths because she has no mouth. No tongue. No voice box. Humans only listen to each other, and even then, the water has seen their savagery. Death upon death. Violence. Blood. All dumped onto (and into) her. Humans forget that they, too, were once her children.
How quickly children forget their mother in their rush to grow up....
The water looks young, though she is quite old. She laments the lost time. Time she can never get back. No amount of change or evolution can change that fact. Not even the soft touch of the wind. Not even the way he moves her, changes her rhythm. Makes her dance and laugh and sing. They watch the sun set together. Look up at the stars. And the water thinks, "At least I'm not alone."
But she is alone. Not even friendly, smiling clouds in a blue sky can undo the horrors the water has seen, felt and been forced to experience again and again and again...in what feels like an eternity of betrayal. An eternity of brute, bullish lust, until it all turns to dust. Even her.
One day, she will evaporate, too. Run dry. And everything will disappear into the blackness of space. She will rest then. At least, for a little while.
Post-script: The photo below was taken in Iceland, which, as you can see, is not really a land of ice--though there are chunks of ice floating off the beaches. It's a unique country, well worth the effort to travel there.