I thought this effort describes the river valley near Dry Fork rather well.
Across the valley, a dromedary sleeps;
A gentle, rounded set of curves against a western sky
ends in an ancient, drowsy head.
At sunset, logger’s scars on tired flanks fade in shadows.
Stars rise over the sleeping beast of burden.
On summer mornings, night’s mist still fills the valley;
Hump, neck and head buried in dense, cotton air
Until a rising sun burns away the blanket, revealing
I drink the river’s cheerful song as it tumbles down the valley.
Tonight, it sounds alive, but well-behaved;
It will not steal rich soil from my field below;
Not threaten neighbor’s stock or house.
But I have learned to listen to the river.
On other nights it roars, filled by steady rain,
Washing the flanks of sleeping beasts;
It turns mean and angry, leaps its banks, stealing crops and cattle,
Leaving stolen goods in branches high above the proper channel.
Listen with care to a river guarded by a sleeping dromedary.