A stony riverbank that crumbles in a blink,
And the stream that rushes and gushes like euphoric eruptions.
Finding, sprinting, needing, hunting – down, down, down
Across the other side less trodden.
Where orchards lounge daylong.
The fall, and wind, the plummet.
An apple; windfall.
The ripeness eating all.
Until the journey leads me to a listless lake,
Calmer than the oaken log – and pictures paint before me:
The Light – the Head – the Dawn.