The silver waters lapped at the moonlit shore,

Tasting the earth.

The feel of pebbles against the river’s tongue,

Swirling and Whirling to the bottom.

Rushing against the will of the wind

Who howls to the night like a wolf

Calling to their pack.

Chill rushes through their bones

as the frost wears away

Leaving a heart of stone

A mind of silver.

Cold, yet warm

And content.

Drifting through the water

into the willow’s waiting hands.

Carried into a bed of moss, vines,

And others of its kind.