I might sit by the stream, and although it was so very cold, for a while I could hold my feet in it, and I would sit on a rock beside it, or on the bank directly, and my feet would be a kind of dam, but insignificant, not holding, and I would feel, watch, the water striking against them, then drawing back as if confused and flowing out around them, finding new routes, new outlets, not held back long by the obstacles. I could watch as that happened, continuously with all the rush of water and yet singly, also, as if I could see each drop of water coming up against this barrier, pulling away to consider, and then, recognizing that it could not push through in its usual route, adapting immediately and finding another way, a way around, and on the other side coming together again and going on, as if almost nothing had happened, perhaps with just a faint, unclear memory of something back there that had made a small, temporary difference.

And then suddenly, and I could not tell why this happened, I would be seeing myself, as if I were standing away a few feet, watching this person who was also myself, ridiculously cropped hair although I had never seen it, jeans rolled up, bare feet in the water, staring down intently, God knows for how long, and the moment would be gone, I would be aware of myself again and realize that my feet were cold, that it was time to move on. Eventually that part that interrupted and judged, I thought, died a natural death; I see now that it was simply dormant.

Water insects fascinated me, especially the striders that lived in the calm side-pools of the stream, occasionally moving out and downstream, going about their odd, flicking business. I suppose it must have been that they were eating, getting some kind of nourishment from the stream surface, but it appeared aimless and also effortless, their incredibly swift movements, just dartings across the surface. They seemed to be totally relaxed — and then suddenly frenetic — and then instantly relaxed again, floating.

Occasionally, but only very occasionally, I saw a frog. They were there, all right, from the sounds they made at night there must have been multitudes, but in the daylight they were hard to spot, green and brown morsels lying still as leaves and twigs; sometimes I might hear a plop as one dove into the stream, but I would rarely see it.