The hidden stream.

The stream that flows down the sloping surfaces of our land has now slowed to not much more than a trickle. In winter, during stormy times, it roars so loudly that it matches the wild wind song in the tall trees, but in early June it is a quiet whispering thing that glides through the tall green grasses, wriggles smoothly around large pebbles and mossy logs before slithering under the wire fence and, a last patch of blue, ducks down among the nettles and heads for the valley bottom below. Soon it will draw its tail down behind it and disappear through the long dry summer months.