It is so becoming this soliloquy of water smoothing over a silk garble of rocks. All day all night slippery hopscotching downstream To be where it needs to go. I have often walked a winding way to the source. Where at the base of a perfectly normal one hundred foot tall fir tree rooted in perfectly normal earth an opening brims a silence till it overflows down a rocky bib sounding to the creek below. Here and there, stream side by the zillions pine needles fluffed and scattered rusting yarrow sticks that I try to read. They make fun of me so much so, in the stream riffles gleam like a chuckle of stars. As luck would have it I have forgotten, I have remembered this gift; this relentless in between, enough for just a moment to be one with it is coming it is flowing away.
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