The brook runs rapidly, almost overflowing. The white foam pushes up where the water twists, turns, dips among the rocks, around and under the fallen limbs, leaving behind autumn leaves and fallen pine needles. The gold remains, strewn, scattered, tossed. They dared to ride the current, an adventure with a friend, and found themselves left behind without a thought, soggy, thrashed, to sleep into the earth. The wet, green moss on rock, tree, and land reminisces summer past. But the river runs on with abandon, not of will, but where it may with frantic force; its time will soon stand still, its torrent a cold, silent memory. Already, frozen droplets on chilled stone surfaces and icicles hanging down from fallen limbs speak the pressure of time. "Go! Go! For soon you, too, will flow no more - until Spring, if you make it through all the force of winter. But what then? Will you recognize your comrades, let alone yourself, to rejoin in the endless rush? Or might you, perhaps, find yourself in a place, and in a form, that is completely foreign to your current sense?" A water droplet is life. And it may, in itself, have more power quietly trickling alone deep into the soil, evaporating into the dry night air, nurturing a newborn root, than in a rushing, noisome torrent. Do not fear the change.
