The mist falls and floats
Down to the trickling stream,
Where there it meets the bubbling,
With the faintest hint of steam.

The two strike up a talk,
In early morning hours
Knowing time is very short,
Until the sun, called by flowers
To wake the world from blissful sleep
Is called on high, and shines
Destroying shadows deep.

The mist cannot survive the sun,
And whispers solemn goodbyes
The stream responds in bubble-tongue
And then, alone, it cries.

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