When I was little, we spent our days wandering. You never know what you'll find on a farm: shiny mica-flecked rocks, squirmy crawfish angrily waving their pincers, a delicate robin's egg broken in two.
In the summer, we wade down into the stream that runs like a silver thread through the green fields of our property. We jump in, bare feet first, down by the clothesline where the stream is placid and the bank slopes gently. We tromp along, squishing our feet into muddy streambed, past the three ponds. Here the stream enters the forest. The air is cold and quiet, shaded by tall trees. There's a hushed feeling everywhere, like we're standing in a church out in the open. Occasionally we hear a bird call. The stream deepens. At some points, it eddies and swirls into rushing whirlpools.
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