But what would the depth be when it rained?
(When the sky more river would lend)
Where did the plane of the surface begin?
And where did the raindrop end?

“This river is yet but a river”
Such concepts I had failed to catch
While the river defined itself perfectly well
My graphs offered only a scratch

I now realized that we all were right
And all just as equally wrong.    
For a river is more than the sum of its parts    
And a bird is more than its song    

With our grand attempts to describe a thing    
No matter abstract or concrete
We must keep in mind one important thing:
Our description never will be complete.
The Graph and the River
by Brian Cerney
{Inspired by Theresa B. Smith (1983)}

I read this article the other day    
Researched by more than a few    
The local river they had defined    
Reporting a depth of fifty-two    
           
But what unit of measure had they used?    
Was it hands or feet or miles?        
Was only a single measurement made?    
Or a numerous series of trials?    
    
Another group, too, had studied hard
Proposing a model “complete”
The river was measured from A to B:
A width of eighty-eight feet    
    
A monograph found the river to be
As thick as split pea soup
The author lambasted the careless techniques
Of both the above-mentioned groups

I decided to look for the answer myself     
To settle it once and for all    
I’d measure the river’s depth and width
During a three-week span in the Fall.