Dear Farm Journal,
Sitting stream-side in an emerald valley, I watch the taut line of my fishing pole. The babbling current tickles my ear drums and brings a message beyond the lexicon. The droplets she carries reflect the cumulus above, yet never stop to look up. I peer into the bubbles and just wonder about Mother Nature. How does she make every season spill forth crisp charm and unceasingly slay me with her brilliance? The river knows.