After a picnic lunch on an overlook, we took a short hike down an old mountain road to a confluence of streams. The road descended gently and paralleled a small brook on the right and a larger stream on the left. We passed the site of an old Episcopal mission. There were no real remains of the place except some evidence of a stone wall that used to line the path.
At the bottom of the trail we crossed a bridge where the brook and stream joined a third stream. A tree there had a small heart shape in its trunk, and it reminded me of Emily Dickinson's poem, "Have you got a Brook in your little heart" (below on the left). Of course, in this case, the little brook had the humble heart (below on the right).
Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so--
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there--
Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go--
And later, in August it may be--
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!
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