Before it has a name, it is a stillness. Snow that forgot how to fall, held in a bowl of granite above the clouds, waiting for the first light to loosen it.
Water does not argue with stone. It keeps the same appointment every morning for ten thousand years, and the stone, eventually, agrees.
Here it loses its name. It braids itself into a hundred smaller promises and gives every one of them away.
And nothing is lost. Tonight the water carries the light it gathered on the way down, and the stars come to the surface to meet it.