I’ve walked beside it countless times. I’ve sat next to it with my love on a rock warmed by the sun. I have taken a few pictures of it. I’ve photographed it in the shade and in the sun. I’ve snapped shots of it flowing over rocks and around bends. I have pictures of it dressed in snow and peppered with fall leaves. Perhaps I’ve taken more than a few.
We all recognize a stream when we see it, yet it is difficult to define. Is it the water that flows through, each drop spending an hour or three meandering through our woods on its way to a river? Is it the channel, formed centuries or eons ago, seemingly constant but in truth ever changing? Does the definition include the crayfish hiding under rocks, the small fish darting in the pools, the dragonfly naiads and tadpoles stalking their prey? And how about the sound, whether it be a peaceful babble in the spring, or a fierce roar after a summer storm?
In truth it includes all these things and much more.
In truth it includes all these things and much more.
I try to give the stream some care, clearing the occasional limb that falls and catches debris. But in truth it needs little from me aside from an admiring gaze and a pledge not to cut the trees that line its banks, both of which I offer freely.
I stroll those banks and cast my gaze upon it nearly daily. In truth, It offers neither stunning falls nor sparkling clear waters. To be brutally honest, its waters are a bit muddy, its banks rather messy. Nonetheless, I’ve not yet tired of the experience. I may never.
As for fairer streams, I’ve known a few. I’ve known mountain streams with roaring rapids. I’ve known streams with smooth stones and crystal waters. I’ve known summer streams lined with rhododendrons and wildflowers, and winter streams with glittering ice. I hope to know a few more. And yet, I hope my footsteps always bring me back to the slight stream that runs behind our little cottage in the woods and whose waters have brought me so much peace.
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