The river flowing by

I woke up early, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sunrise over the snowy peaks. But the sun, the lake, the birds and the tranquility of Mother Nature woke up earlier than I did, or could ever do.

Sitting on a boulder by the river, I absorb the sounds, the feel the light drizzle smoothing and calming on my skin. Clouds hide majestic faces of towering peaks, dense pines adorn the arched backs of rolling hills. The song of birds and cricket-like call of unseen chipmunks awaken my senses. 

I sit here, put in the morning chill, all alone, yet surrounded and blessed by what nature has to offer without even trying. The river flows rapidly by, the sounds and the water have no feelings, have no remorse or guilt over where they have come from. Most of all, the river has no fears where it is headed. It may have a name, but what use is a name, what does it mean to have a purpose, for the trees and creatures that it nurtures and touches? The river just flows, carrying with it, bits and pieces from lakes, ponds and streams further up, meandering over time and the land downwards towards the ocean. 

It flows on by, and momentarily, my thoughts and worries flow and float away with it.