The Sun and The Mountain Stream

The morning sun, blazing in a clear, blue sky, pieced the mountain stream, all the way to the rocky bottom. It shone its white, wavery lines into the cold, silver water.

The water in the mountain stream rushed away, down the mountain slope, crashed over the rocks and disappeared around a corner, running deep along the edge of a rocky cliff where the sun didn’t shine.

“What?” said the sun. “Did I say something wrong?”

The water ran dark and strong, saying nothing.

“I was just trying to help with a little advice,” said the sun.

“It didn’t help,” murmured the stream.

“It’s been ten years!” said the sun angrily, “Don’t you think it’s time to get over it. You have tributaries now, and you need to calm down, take life seriously, do what you need to do, for them.”

The water ran deeper now, dark and grey, along a stretch of the stream where both sides of the canyon rose up steeply and cast a dark shade over the whole of it.

The sun threw up his hands in frustration.

The water ran deeper now, within herself.

“It was good advice!” said the sun, “If she could just understand it.”

“It is a deep hurt!” said the water, “If he could just feel it.”

A cloud passed in front of the sun. The rays disappeared from the stream, even where it ran out into the open.

The sun darkened. The water darkened. Dark cried out to dark, and deep cried out to deep.

Then the sun, without a word, wrapped dark arms around the dark stream, and the stream reached up and hugged the sun, and then there was deep and quiet calm.

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