Golden light pours through the high valley,
soft as breath, bright as a first awakening.
Snowmelt runs clear along the stones,
a mountain stream whispering its endless song.
Every ripple carries the scent of new earth,
the hush of roots drinking deep.
Moss shines like emerald silk,
each drop of water a tiny mirror for the sky.
Mist rises where the current leaps,
and there a rainbow arcs—
not a bow to be claimed,
but a fleeting bridge of color between silence and light.
No footsteps disturb the banks,
no voice names what is seen.
The world is whole in its own being,
spring unfolding in quiet celebration.
The stream moves on,
gold and crystal,
as if the mountain itself were breathing peace.
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