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.


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.


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.


The brook struggles to calm her rapids,

Still her waves upon sandy shores,

Slow down her rushing waters;

Her voice among the pines.


Wanting so badly to impress,

To be,

Her gentle river



The river is patient,

Listening to the struggles of

The brook

As she rushes down the mountain side

On a mindless, random course.


The waters of the brook

Wind around a hidden curve,

Empty unexpectedly

Into a shallow pool

Warmed by the morning sun.


Rapids and waterfalls dissolve

Into water crystal smooth;

The roar and rushing flow

Slows to a gentle trickle.


Everything becomes




The babbling brook,

Her rushing, giggling voice,

Is no longer just noise

In the lonely forest


She is nature's

Silent music.