The surface of the stream,
When ripples roll,
As the breeze catches,
Bows like savanna grasses,
We hear similar levels;
Murmurs…a susurrus,
Barely there, yet obvious —-
Such rich eloquence,
Whispers of the water-bound;
Trickles, tinkles, plops, splashes,
Gentle caresses to those exposed,
The stroke of fingertips,
Kisses upon eyelashes,
Those tenderest expressions
Between incipient lovers
Learning the lie of the land:
What level of sound; sweetest,
Suits this liminal gentility,
As we learn the play of artists.
-by Broc Silva, Ryde
Brevity 