Stroll along the road beneath the whisper of the trees and pause for a moment, no more, at the stream? The breeze is always kinder at the stream, the rain falls softer, the sting swept away in the gurgle of the stream below and the old bridge though broken can still take the weight of one who sits and watches.
The trees live on changeless in a changing world, gone are the days when a farmer would clear the edges keeping the weeds at bay. Now tall weeds lean over the banks clogging the stream, still the water gurgles, sure nothing can hurt it here. Once there was a king fisher now there are no fish.
As if to compensate the modern world shows us the changes we have wrought if you look you will see glittering and discarded the empty containers and empty bottles, all plastic, all poison, hopefully they are trapped in the weeds but there are no guarantees not anymore.
The sun dapples in the trees and on what remains of the stream, grass is as green as ever though weeds grow rich and the stream gurgles, sure nothing can hurt it here. And here on every trip back from town I sit for a moment and watch the gurgling stream
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