Burble. It’s such a silly word, but there’s no other way to describe the stream flowing beside you. It burbles along, with little splashes here and there as the water rushes to its final location. Periodically, a leaf gets carried along the current, a little boat navigating very small dangers.
You’re conscious, today, to not think too much. You think so much, so often, that it’s time to give yourself a little break. Not a long one, of course—there’s still plenty of things that need doing, and almost all of them require your brain. But for now, beside the river, you can shut things off.
It’s entrancing—it always is. Watching the rush of water over rocks, forming little waterfalls here and there, the delicate sound of moving water soothing you from the inside out.
You sneak down to the riverbed, careful not to slip, and dip your hand in. Cool water caresses your fingers, tugging you like an impatient child. Come see, come see! it urges. There’s something at the end of the stream, but it’s very far away. So you placate it. Later, later. Let me sit, just for a few moments more.
The stream does, though the water still plays with your fingertips. There’s a chill in the air, at war with the sunlight that streams through the trees. Right on the edge of seasons, though the stream’s cold is still refreshing.
You could stay here forever, listening to the burble of water as it rushes by. You consider doing just that.
But there are things to do, and thoughts to have, and far too much tickling at the edge of your mind. Your thoughtless bubble is broken by the shriek of children running behind you, and you draw your hand out of the water.
You have your own burbling to do, after all.