"Waitin' round the bend...

...my huckleberry friend." Moon River, by Henry Mancini, from Breakfast at Tiffany's

I took a picture of a stream with no name.

I'm not so vain to suppose that no one had ever seen this stream before, or that someone had never thought to name it. Surely there are people along its length who call it something.

It consisted of crystal-green water, strolling here, leaping there, and dancing in the best musical style down a series of rocks to a bubbling crescendo--I say crescendo, and so it was. A perfect cacophony of droplets, though really, as it was quite a small, mild-mannered stream, the crescendo may only be as striking as would a child's voice, piping among adult chatter.

But there it was, sounding brightly in the harmonious mix which makes the orchestra of a Tennessee wood.

I doubt that stream will cross my path again, as life tends to prevent these chances reoccurring, but in my little store of pictures there will always be one little snapshot of that stream.



A stream with no name.