The Conversation Hunters

Two gentle brooks left their abode high up in the mountain.
The one had never known the other.
They ambled over rocks and pebbles
That changed their course - now this way, now that way.
And joyfully the two brooks sang, unheard by one another.

And then the twists and turns of the land
Brought the brooks together.
Their waters met seamlessly, effortlessly.
And together they made their way across bouldes and rocks and pebbles,

The conversation flowed over cups of cuba libre.
It mattered not to them what they talked about,
So long as the words flowed between them.
They felt alive, connected- like the two brooks on the mountain.

And so the brooks travelled together.
Lingering along the bends and valleys
Where the wild flowers grew.
Sometimes they met other springs that chanced to flow the same way,
And then there was a torrent.
Other times they just ambled on by themselves,
Words flowing like the clear, cool, misty waters of the mountain spring.

And the day came when the land
No longer curved to nestle the brooks together.
They must now, perforce, part.
And they parted with no more thought.

The one carried the waters of the other with it.
The one was perhaps the other!
But on they went their separate paths,
A liitle slower, a little heavier.
A deep sigh where once a careless song played.
Knowing they lost something,
But never knowing what.

--GST