Every rainy season, this tiny crick comes alive. By midsummer, it’s gone and the mosses dry to a crisp brown.
Some heathen, the type that rides through wearing shiny black biking shorts, claimed one August that our land around here looked parched and ugly. He thought he’d better hustle on through to points south.
That’s why we only allow tourists in the summer. They start coming around this time a year, we couldn’t never get rid of ’em.