In a small boat she floats and is carried by the stream. The rivulet is a highway for the patient, blessed with a view that speaks a soft statement. Words of swaying flowers and a cadence of steady rising hills reassures even the most troubled of souls while they float down the current towards whatever they sought or sought to escape.
The rich, warm light of the sun glowed on the crystal waves as the boat smoothly cut like a hot knife through butter. She rowed the oars in her own rhythm; breathed each breathe slowly and full. Time may be a river, but today she mustered the strength to enjoy it passing without rush or desire. It flowed, and she along with it.
The ocean in the distance, too far to see but always close enough to feel, awaited to bond with the waters rocking her. What would it be like to let it take her too? To turn and watch as the shore, the shore she has always lived, walked, and slept upon, fail to wave to her as she leaves it behind. Under the open sky and upon the open water; just a tiny dot indiscernible from the flocks of gulls from where the clouds observed.
Playful was the thought, but she knew the dock in which this ride would end. Wading to tie down her vessel, her wet boots pressing down in to the dirt brought her to land once more. The little rivulet behind her waving and smiling in hopes of a quick return.