A stream meanders through the mossy stones, Murmuring tales in soft and gentle tones. It speaks of journeys from the mountain high, Beneath the vast and ever-changing sky. The ancient pines stand guard along its shore, Their whispered wisdom adding to the lore. A lonely heron dips its beak to drink, As silver moonbeams on the water wink. It flows through night, through dawn’s first golden light, A liquid thread of darkness and of bright. Carving its path where only wild things roam, This wand...
