The stream gushed out of a tumble of rocks on the mountain-side, half-hidden by bracken and gorse. Down from the source, the stream threaded a shallow valley among the hills, swirling around alder roots. Lesser tributaries joined and mingled. Trout hid in holes in the banks.
A dam lies at the valley mouth. As the waters tumbled onto the plain, they crashed and churned to power the village and the surrounding farms.
Then the slow meander through fields of green and gold. Willow leaves danced and kingfishers flashed overhead.
Finally, the salt taste, as the ashes joined the moon-driven ocean.
Michael Bloor only discovered the exhilarations of short fiction after he retired.
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