A spring trickles out of the rock in the gloomy recesses of the cavern, and we were thirsty.
Following the path backwards, we picked out another spot, where a spring trickled across it.
A small spring trickled from beneath the big stone slab and gathered in a little pool below.
The path was here rocky, there carpeted with pine needles, occasionally damp and mucky where tiny springs trickled across.
A spring trickled out of a rocky overhang and fell into a rill that emptied into a pool.
Freshly exposed springs trickled through the fragments.
Underground springs trickled over channels worn smooth by erosion, the echoes like whispers in the dark; all else was still.
Before them, a small spring welled up among straggling trees and trickled away down a moss-green channel.
Near the West 85th Street entrance to Central Park, a spring trickles through rolling hills thick with white oak trees.
A spring trickled water into a mossy pool at the very edge of the trees, and the grass in the clearing was intensely green.
