The warm haze of an early October afternoon—end of a day of work, full of tension, unremarked, unaddressed.
On the wind, the quiet smell of a place nearby, yet a generation removed—
At hand the stream where I played so often so many years ago—the place that shaped that time, that gave color and flavor to a young boy's life.
In this one place then, the stream remains as it was twenty-five years ago. The same leaves overhang the still waters, the same small insects play across it's quiet surface; the same small little fishes probably hide in its shaded nooks.