Seeping loss trickling like an onyx stream,   rocks covered in an emerald green softness. Water moves in between the black marbles down to the source where it can feel whole again. Down the fir-scented mountain sides the stream moves, through the woods -- honeyed with a musk scent of decaying leaves, smelling of earth and mother. Still on and on and finally making its way to the salty, jeweled sand where the rivulets run to the sea like an old woman's spidery fingers. The same water that glided over the slabs of high altitude rock, through the fissures and splits of cold granite, and touched the shiny black lips of a wandering deer, bending down to take a drink of bliss.
Now, here, salt on my lips.