All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again. It is raining today in the mountains. It is a warm green rain with love in its pockets for spring is here, and does not dream of death. Birds happen music like clocks ticking heavens in a land where children love spiders, and let them sleep in their hair. A slow rain sizzles on the river like a pan full of frying flowers, and with each drop of rain the ocean begins again. / Richard Brautigan