Waters like a bear’s growl surged past, observing and unobserved. Specks of water flew from side to side, up and down, entering the air to be dropped down into the water from whence it came once more: fallen angels streaming with passionate power. Rocks in the stream bed cut the water left and right like marbles scattered on glass panes, making a similar scratching sound: nature’s abacus being threaded back and forth by invisible hands. Leaves from the trees nearby dropped into the water and were never seen again - floating up and down until they did not resurface, lost as if in ancient, golden desert sands. The sun shone on the water, gilding it like the mane of a lion - peaceful in observance, yet deadly once near. And year after year it continued just like this, continued with no eyes to watch it, no nose to smell it, no ears to hear it, no hands to touch it.