The stream is talking to me as I sit on a stump, surrounded by trees in high summer green. I look at the stout wooden bridge across what we call “Tub Mill Creek.” The Ross Mountain Club owns the hilly land, or so says the deed at the Court House. The stream isn’t wide – maybe six feet – and shallow enough to speak clearly as it goes over the mossy rocks. I don’t understand a single word, but what the stream says is plain. “Welcome. “Welcome to my little valley. “My course is clear. “I know where I’m going. “I know where I come from.” “From the sky, by way of rain drops? “From underground, deep in the earth?” “Yes, indeed.” The stream is not loud. But it’s louder than the locusts. “I’ve been here a while, “since the glaciers. “I’ve not much new to say. “But I’m glad to have someone “to talk to.”
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