It occurs to me now that the word “streaming” has a different meaning than it once did, but I return to the original meaning of sitting by a stream, and listening, and being moved by rhythm and sounds.

As Carl Perkins said, If it weren’t for the rocks in its bed, the stream would have no song, and sitting, sauntering, and exploring yesterday, I heard a multitude of songs.  The wind sang, too, and the falling leaves, each one twirling like a butterfly in a slow and languid descent.

I took Obi Kaufman’s advice and drove four miles to Cascade Canyon and walked up to Cascade Falls.  A picture can’t capture Mother Earth’s flow but perhaps some of the photos capture the light on the stream. I can’t share the smells of autumn oaks and bays but again imagine an inhalation so deep, there is no beginning and end, only connection that circles a whole.

There are also Three Wells where I used to take my children to dip and swim in summer. All is quiet now, this harvest time of year.