When I was young at the creek, I strolled mindlessly beside the small aisle of cool, streaming water. All sorts of shades of green and blue and white, it trickled peacefully, leaving wisps of sound. Rocks dotted the bottom of the shallow creek. I waded in the chilly waters, slowly, carefully, warily, feeling the water nip at my exposed skin. I remember feeding the ducks raw rice during the colder seasons. Although they were afraid of my dog, the ducks didn’t complain about free food.

When I was young at the creek, echoes of robins chirping delightfully, woodpeckers knocking roughly at trees, and ducklings squeaking their first quacks bounced around in the air. In the bleary months of summer, the branches of trees poked playfully at passersby. The sand at the edges warmed my bare feet. And for some odd reason, the water always felt extra cold.

When I was young at the creek, I always wondered about the water. It was calm and soothing, never rushed or panicked. It made me feel peaceful. I was invested in the slow motion of the creek. For some fleeting seconds, all you heard was the quiet rush of water. But after a rainfall, you couldn’t miss the thunderous waves of water in the creek.

At the creek, I listened to the soft murmur of leaves rustling in the wind, watched minnows bask under the sun’s hazy reflection, spied on ducks nursing their ducklings. I sometimes went to the bridge with a twig with leaves, I would drop it in the creek and wait for it to cross over to the other side, just like in Winnie the Pooh. I remember that my dog splashed around in the water, chasing ducks and pawing at rocks. I always took deep breaths of the cold, fresh air, happy that the creek was always here.