A poem by Bud Light

In the beginning
When the now rushing river
Curling over moss-robed stones
Was a trickling stream among rocks,
Then brown and barren ….
There was no majesty.
No great, green cliffs, encrusted
And crowned with the jewels of existence and age.
Just a stream and rocks.
Unaware that time had affixed them there.
Forever, As it passed by.
We are not unlike them.
Each the rock.
Each the stream,
The dreams Locked within.
Small movements in the breeze
Or Just a trickle Part of life’s landscape.
But silent running,
Always…silent.

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