The water runs, splays across the rock in the middle of the creek bed…
Lifting up the baton – knurled fingers – the conductor began the music…
When the sun rises above the tree line the atmosphere warms…
Gradually the Earth yawns, and stretches its cuticles, the roots…
As the leaves unfurl the ancient trees turn the page and read our faiths…
And are as silent as the scholar – statue – standing in the middle of the park…
So it goes. The un-named dancer pirouettes. Get it done.