The Mountain Stream

The early morning sun yet
gathering full potency wanly
begins to light its way through
the damp cold atmosphere of
declining dawn, still stamped
with the signature of night and
the rain that distinguished it. A
robin trills its peerless praise
of sun following rain. Rocks
long tumbled, sliding the 
mountainside to rest among
great old pines, glisten their
presence, grey lichen in a
pattern rejecting the shine. The
mountain stream lashes the slope
to carve its journey in a permanent
map on the granite, reaching the
forest floor, sending its spray
high and truculently claiming
its presence in the din of its roar.