The Whistling Creek

It hushes me,

it whistles to me.

Washing along,

It speaks to me, and I listen.

Sailing downstream,

and out into the open.

It turns from fresh,

to salt.

Instead of seeing frogs,

I see coral.

Instead of moss on the banks,

I see crabs on the shore.

The sun sets,

on the horizon.

It turns from

day to night.

At night, some creatures sleep,

but some only just start to wake. 

The secret it holds

is more precious than gold.