Caleb sat by the rushing stream, watching the sun glint off the water as it flowed past smooth stones and fallen leaves. A kingfisher darted overhead, its brilliant blue feathers catching his eye. Words began to form in his mind, ideas sparked by the sights and sounds around him.
Ever since he was young, Caleb had felt a stirring within him when faced with beauty - the desire to capture such experiences in language. Poetry, his mother had called it. His first poems had been simple things, rhyming lines about flowers and trees. But as he grew older, his poems became more complex, filled with metaphor and symbolism.
He closed his eyes, inhaling the fresh scent of grass and earth carried on the breeze. The sounds of trickling water and chirping birds filled his ears. When he opened his eyes again, the shapes he saw - the curve of a branch, the flutter of petals - ignited new poems within him.
"Writing another one?" a familiar voice said.
Caleb turned to see his friend Clara walking towards him, a basket slung over one arm.
"I can always tell when the words are flowing through you," she said with a smile, sitting down beside him.
Caleb grinned. "The scene just begged to be made into a poem. The stream, the light.. it all awakened the words inside me."
Clara nodded. "It's a gift - the ability to transform the ordinary into something extraordinary through poetry. You have that gift, my friend."
They sat together in comfortable silence for a while, watching the stream flow by. Caleb felt the reassuring presence of his oldest friend, who had always encouraged his poetic spirit. He began to speak the words forming within him, reciting the poem the scene had inspired:
Silvery stream that flows past me,
Glittering in the golden sun.
The call of birds rings true and free,
While above a kingfisher runs.
The rushing sound of waterfall,
Dances with the whispers low
Of leaves that to the ground now fall,
As seasons come and seasons go.
The breeze now carries me along,
Wraps me in its sweet refrain,
While I pour forth this song,
Of words that paint a landscape plain.
The shapes that move within my sight,
Are melody made form and rhyme,
As I, a poet born of light,
Sing of beauty out of time.