Satisfaction, Part 4 of 4
The Fuente
Those little birds (he'd never known their name)
went skittering over ground, to hide in brambles.
How nimble Nature is! The swallows screamed
and wheeled above, descanting their Te Deum.
Gonzalo moved on up towards the Fuente.
The Fountainhead. What if it ever failed?
By force of will, he put that from his mind.
It was a thing to never think about,
a farm without its water. On he pressed.
Ah, hear it now! The chuckling of the spring,
where it came gushing from the living rock,
so cold and clean. That archaeologist
from Malaga once told him of this water,
and how it fell as rain and pooled inside
the mountain, percolating, sifting down
for centuries. He came up to the source,
and splashed the icy jet around his face.
"This water's older than America," he mused,
"and yet it feels so fresh. Just like my crops!"
Tomatoes, apricots - all ancient fruits,
but rising year on year, and each time new.
How wonderful, this life! "All thanks to you!"
Gonzalo blessed his Fuente, glittering in the sun.
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