I always try to find reasons to laugh.
I hiccup in quiet if there are only tickles across the faucet handles,
and a hiss escapes me as my thinnest lines slip down the metal grates.
I chuckle low and hearty when the reeds bend close and the creeks sigh, lazy, although
No one likes my cackle—sk sk sk sk—because it means the final taste.
I howl with cheer as I rush and dip towards and away from the sand, who always somehow manages to tag me, cheek in its face.
But some days, I can’t find it in me to laugh.
I lay languidly lost in the depression that cradles deep, high whines and the smell of blood flits above me.
I don’t bother.
Answer: The sound of water