Winter Stream . . . The Alps.

For many years, I've been privileged to live for extended periods with
the sound of rushing mountain water as my ever-present companion.
Here's a little prose piece, celebrating this movement, that begins
the first week of the Picture/Poem collection:


On Water in flowing Movement

Rushing energy fills the air!  Being careful not to get wet,
boots step from stone to stone like a child just learning to play
the piano, trying hard to hit the right notes in a sea
of possible errors. The joy of a world of self-made bridges,
used then forgotten, leaving no trace. On the other side,
water bottle filled, I move on up a steep slope.


From above, the whole of the stream seems so utterly
constant, a silver thread shimmering, weaving,
feeling its way down the mountain.


It is this movement which gives shape to the form, and it is
the structure of the bed of the stream, cut deep into the granite
rock, which gives order to the movement. A necessary unity,
it seems.

The water in my pack which quenches my thirst is not the stream.
I can take the water with me but I can't get hold of the movement.
There is something beautiful in that. At best, I can try to point at it,
but the pointing itself is not the movement which is the stream,
although I admit that I frequently confuse the two. And it is this
movement which one leaves behind as oneself, too, moves on.

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