The sound of the palm leaves shaking is like water falling. I say goodbye to the trees and move on.
The view of Molawin creek from above the never-ending bridge is never-ending beauty. If there ever is a curator of rocks, this part of the creek was curated. At 4 pm, the rocks are photographic. The light that pierces the canopy of trees touches the rocks gently, and the water sparkles from afar.
Along the rocks, the water flows fast. A mini rapid. Then it weakens as it reaches a large pool, the part of the creek below the bridge itself, which is deeper, rockless. Here, the water rests as if it was its home.
Occasionally, the water crumples. Either something from above falls or something from below moves. Whatever falls, I do not see. Whatever moves below is a mystery.
Everything here is silent if not for the occasional car and walker that passes by the bridge or the birds that glide from one tree to the next.