I descend, a tiny gem of liquid, from the clouds' womb; harnessed by the breath of the wind, I am both weightless and inevitable.
The air whispers tales of journeys past— of the sun's caress, the sea's embrace, and the earth's yearning. These stories resonate, a chorus of forgotten hymns.
When I strike the canyon's floor, it will be with a gentle insistence. The stone arches will cradle my impact, amplifying it into a sonorous cascade, a single note drawn out.
There I shall linger, as the echoes dance along the jagged edges; ripples in time, rebirth in the resonance of my fall.
Yet, the breath of the canyon— a vast, hollow sigh— will carry me far beyond. Perhaps I will meet another drop, and we may weave a tapestry of echoes.
Until then, I listen; awaiting each stroke of gravity that gnaws at the fabric of solitude. This is the song of the sonorous canyons.