There are rivers that I know,
born of ice and
melting snow,
white with rapids,
swift to roar,
with no farms
along their shore,
with no cattle
come to drink
at a staid
and welcoming brink,
with no millwheel,
ever turning,
in that cold
relentless churning.
Only deer
and bear and mink
at those shallows
come to drink,
only paddles,
swift and light,
flick that current
in their flight.
I have felt
my heart beat high,
watching
with exultant eye,
those pure rivers
which have known
no will, no purpose
but their own.
78.This poem is written from the point of view of
a poet who
A. is afraid of what she describes
B. is unaffected by what she describes
C. has wanted to experience what she describes
D. has personally witnessed what she describes