The stream

It was little more than a trickle.

Ice walls and brittle shards held it in the winter,

In the spring it jumped and sang.

The mountain only had these two,

The cold cutting ice,

And the life infused green of spring.

The spring ran down the mountain,

Hardly changing,

Never slowing.

It would be great,

It would swell and grow,

Witnesses to it named it miraculous.

It would split the earth,

When it roared the ground shook.

This little stream,

Rolling on along,

Just a whisper in the great scheme of things.


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