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Marcy Brook is channelling winter water, weaving it through the flatter sections here after a long tumble down from Indian Falls. Summer water is more subtle; wet leaves, damp ground, earth smells. A white noise keeps you in touch from the trail. The sound of winter water is dampened, perhaps more sluggish from the cold. It moves to keep from freezing, but adds to the ice a molecule at a time. The banks will grow out and the islands will grow in until they meet and seal the stream's fate. Winter water will become a gurgle underfoot. Lacking the hiss of rainfall, snowfall is silent, and bolder as it builds to cover these scenes we know with a whole new look. Both have their charms; I am stuck with the water I am dealt. I drink it in.
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