I am a brook with pebbled bottom, fish upon my stones. I am the avenue they travel, in this dapple lighted home, this place of pools, and roots, and shadow'd currents, cool as ripp'ling fingers, fathom'd, as...with silver'd scales flashing, idle they, 'mong strangely joy'd currents, of their daily travel.
They are people of the waters, with eyes and minds and hearts and souls, and know no other yet, as all, with days to live and nights, and errands...upon which, they call.
In their llyad existence, they are happy apace, in their schools, among their children...in their own dear ways, a romance with their 'clear confine', this element...they've known from birth.
They know not what to call it, nor about themselves. In solitude they pray, as fish will pray...to that which is their life...where stream and stone and breath, pass through...
...as all
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
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