In the mossy rocks along the bottom of a stream that we
watch gently glide
There is another world than the one from which we stand upon
this bank
Down in the depths where light fades to only green and blue
The stones hold cold secrets left them by the melting snows
Underneath the surface, currents come and go with the
seasons
Just as the sound of running water is different through the
ice
The streams where we waded as children were old long before
our time
They had polished many pebbles and undercut their green and
spongy banks
In the deep pools where eddies ripple, the stream still
pauses to reflect
In the weedy backwaters, the overflow irrigates wherever it
collects
Behind the beaver dams tiny reservoirs are managed yet today
The wetlands hold the moisture until they freeze thru once
again
This small creek spins different versions of its many tales,
all at once
The wind strokes the grasses that thrive in the moist soil
by the water
People come and go but the water keeps rolling on from somewhere
Behind a resting boulder the large trout fans in its
soothing eddy
Though moving in many directions all the water still ends up
together
Tiny wavelets lap the shore in a diorama of the entire
cosmos
In the shade of a tree on the bank it is cool on the hottest
summer day
Though restless and ever-changing that brook is clearly
timeless
Passing over rocks it is smoothing, the water takes a deep
and cleansing breath
It gurgles happily like a long and purring cat twisting on
its back
Sometimes in spring, between its slurping, you can hear it
knocking stones
Such small waters might bring a short and unaccustomed peace to a wandering folk
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