A babbling brook flows through the mossy stones, Its gentle voice the forest air intones. Silver fish dart ‘neath the willow’s shade, Where dappled light and dancing leaves are made. An old man rests upon the weathered bank, His silent thoughts form a poetic rank. He watches clouds like sails drift slow and high, Across the vast and ever-changing sky. The water tells of mountains far away, Of melting snow that greets the break of day. It sings of roots and rains and ancient things, The timele...
