In the Silent Valley, I emptied my water into the unknown. Patient, unyielding drops refused to say goodbye.
They will leave with the rest.
No special treatment will be given. The low, attentive mist watches and waits, a damp shroud of privacy.
I no longer needed my water.
Let it mix and wash and foam with the rest.
Let it strike the stone walls and smooth the stones on the shore.
Let it be purified and imbibed by those below.
Who wants my water?
It may be of use to another.
I have never wondered whose water I have drank.
Better not to know.
Theirs was poured out in secret as mine was. They awaited the last falling drops. They took the bottle to the dispenser and awaited their twenty-five cent return, their reward for carrying their water to its destination.
Now others can drink. And so will I.
In the Silent Valley, I left my water. Where it goes next is not my concern.