The path of a forest stream is

guided by the gentle branches of surrounding groves

meandering angles shaped by stoic roots

driven deep into the bitter earth

making dirt and mud their mossy home.

The stream sings as she feels the warm embrace of the sunshine,

tainted with anticipatory frustration.

For the moment lasts only so long before the tree reassembles his branches,

casting a shadow over her tepid waters. 

The stream knows that this is only temporary

and sooner welcomed when in spring, she returns from the calloused soil

relieving the riverbed from it's dryness. 

"Did you miss me?" She asks the tree.

His silence echoes but the stream knows the truth. 

Tree felt her absence when the cacophonies of cicadas left in the haste of late summer.

Tree longed for his sister when the moon dipped into the hazy October twilight. 

Tree discovered a hole in his roots when it filled with snow, unprotected by her lethargic tide.

Tree missed her until she returned in the spring. 

So in the still of the twilight

when the orchard has wished sweet dreams

the tree softly taps the stream awake

and together they sing and play mandolin and create ludicrous covers of Green Day 

while the rest of the forest pretends to be asleep