Last day in Appalachia. Mountain birds, tall grasses, more horses.
Sing something, will you? Sing of a feather clinging to a window? Of the nights spent tossing words into the fire? Of the mornings spent meditating in calm? Of two young deer headed, in late spring, up the driveway?
Looking young and perplexed, the pair stood and looked around; estranged, amazed, regaining their bearings, they headed down the hillside.
We follow them until the woods get thick and then, on our own, go down as the mountain waters flow down to its source.
The water flows from its source and returns to its source and is changed along its course.