Gurgling,
Burbling,
Chugging,
Giggling,
Warbling syncopation.
I sit on a moss-covered stone throne on a temporary island in the middle of the creek, misted by the water hurtling by. Tiny sandy beaches with mossy benches, big enough for one person, dot the banks. Rhododendron and hemlock groves frame the creek to the water’s edge. I imagine the massive rocks being tossed downstream from the Continental Divide by ancient gods in the beginning of time, when the mountains were so high that they touched the sky.