In the winter, particularly after a rainstorm, the sound of the rushing creek echoes constantly; an audible reminder of what lies just beyond the concrete sidewalks and the freeway and the shops.

I followed the path one day, further than I had ever gone before. Down to the base of the ravine, where the cars along the overpass were a mere susurrus eclipsed by the more immediate sound of running water. It had rained recently and I slid at some of the steeper turns. As I came to the basin I began to follow by the waterside, and the path slowly vanished until there was no trail any longer. I wondered if I might get lost. As I turned around one bend, pushing aside the ivy that hung like curtains from the branches, I found a concrete tunnel, through which the water was seeping forth. It was a strangely incongruous sight; a forgotten man-made edifice among the tangled greenery.

The places where water springs from the earth have long been associated with power. They are magical places. They are the pools of knowledge and the fountains of eternal youth. They are the dwellings of nymphs, the birthplace of demons, and the freshwater tears of gods.

Size: 8x10 inches
Medium: Ink on bristol
Original available here: [link]