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Water had furrowed the rocks the way time etches an old man’s face. The flow was steady, patient, and the water had clearly expended much of its efforts either carving pathways to follow or sanding smooth the stone beneath it in a time honored journey to the sea.
Ignoring rocks it had befriended eons earlier, the brook disappeared below the surface only to find its path again a few yards later, a trickle then a stream and finally, a shallow pool which refused to impede progress as water softly fell like streams of spring rain over a terrace of stone built with the loving, artistic hands of someone far more patient and with far more time than man.