I am drawn into the singing waters of this mountain stream. I am transported back in time. I build dams. I search for living creatures under each stone. As I pick each stone it is examined and admired. Holding a stone in each hand I clap them together and I listen as their sound follows the creek's path, turns the bend and is heard no more. I dream the dreams of childhood.
I smell dark, rich, damp and mossy soil. I hear the rapping of a woodpecker upon a hollow tree, the calling of birds high above me and hidden among the shadows. I feel the smooth wet stones in my hands. I wiggle my toes to push away the creek bed stones to reveal the soft sand and clay underneath. I am alone and I am unafraid.
It is glorious!
There is that knowledge of childhood which does know the language of the stones and does understand the chorus of the rushing water.
For I sprang from the very spring of these waters and I desire to dwell here, within the wood forever, or at least until dusk. Until then I am a builder and a dreamer of dreams.