We got out of the City for a few days. Where we found ourselves was in the country, on one of our planned vacations, and next to where we are staying is a brook. Where I’m from, we would have called it a creek. Or maybe it’s a stream. Either way, its water rushing over rocks. Nature’s white noise machine. And it is a rushing, turning, moving brook. I dare not wade into it, as I think it would carry me away. The water is clear, and I can only imagine very cold.
As I have looked at this brook for the past couple of days, I want to know where the source of the water is. I want to know where it is going. The water passes through the property, but I have no gage on the role this water plays in the countryside. Is it spring feed? Does it come from the mountains? Is it created by the rainfall? I know all water makes it to the sea, but does the brook stop off at a pond or a lake?
At night, when I go to sleep, I hear the rushing of the water, and it is the first thing I hear in the morning. The birds calls around here have to fight to be heard. The movement of water, passing and going. The continuous, calming sound.
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