Where Do All the Pooh Sticks Go

Where do all the Pooh sticks go, you lovingly selected, dropped in the water, on their way? Then ran across the bridge to witness how they fared, alone, without your guiding hand. All now slither, out of sight, eager in the rippling stream; dashing, tumbling, burbling to experiences; wondrous and new. Wonderlust will end too soon for some; a moss-grown boulder, old, cantankerous, will add some budding sticks to others whose passage it has stalled among the rotting vegetation. Others careen carefree past, carried aimless by the stream, just going with the flow, attracting others in their wake. A peppy school of sticks along with twigs and leaves, some trash, washing wastefully along wherever water takes them. Some will find their place; a home for butterfly, bug, or toad, adding to a beaver's dam or a poke-stick for a child. A purpose ascertained; a voyage happily at close. Sticks don't always have a choice; it's where the river takes them. But hopefully, a few will reach the sea; their journey's end, and wash up happily, retired, on sun-soaked Spanish shores.