Silent Music

I know of a babbling brook,

Somewhere high in the mountain peaks,

Where no one hears but

The birds and the trees,

As the water rushes by.

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The splashing waters and roaring rapids,

Waterfalls and tiny waves,

Make up the brook's unique voice

Weaving through the silent pines;

Those patient listeners.

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A gentle river passes

Close to the babbling brook,

His waters still and mellow;

No rapids or dangerous undercurrents,

His cautious voice is shy,

Appearing almost silent

To the untrained ear.

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The brook struggles to calm her rapids,

Still her waves upon sandy shores,

Slow down her rushing waters;

Her voice among the pines.

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Wanting so badly to impress,

To be,

Her gentle river

Friend.

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The river is patient,

Listening to the struggles of

The brook

As she rushes down the mountain side

On a mindless, random course.

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The waters of the brook

Wind around a hidden curve,

Empty unexpectedly

Into a shallow pool

Warmed by the morning sun.

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Rapids and waterfalls dissolve

Into water crystal smooth;

The roar and rushing flow

Slows to a gentle trickle.

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Everything becomes

Still,

Quiet.

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The babbling brook,

Her rushing, giggling voice,

Is no longer just noise

In the lonely forest

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She is nature's

Silent music.

10/24/06