Imagine that you’re standing on this bridge
right beside me, looking at the astonishing details
of this tranquil summer scene. That’s the Little Beaver,
and I’ve seen beavers here, from this very bridge,
no longer than a year or two ago, right over there.
How many cars cross here in a day would you suppose?
A couple hundred? Maybe more? Could be.
How many who cross even turn their heads to glance
at this? They already know it. It’s the creek and trees.
Imagine we stand here together, taking it in, smiling
in the moist, warm air, listening to the creek’s songs,
our bodies lightly swaying with the dances of the trees.