There's a creek that runs alongside the mountain, adjacent to the southernmost fields of my family's farm. You might call it a brook, it's so small, if you were to address it properly. But since I was a kid the locals refered to it as a creek.
It drapes down from west to east; altitude declining unperceived as it falls. The water cascading ever so gently; you can barely see it break against the polished rocks on its downward journey.
It is a sunken stream; buried below ground level by centuries of motion. You walk down into it if you wish to view it.
The tangled rows of dividivis shelter it from above; a thorny ceiling of wild, overgrown and twisted wooden flesh; they weepingly hang over the sides. Sprouts from an old leather dye plantation gone wild; allowed to extend past the parameters of their intended home to takeover the mountain and valley below it.
The creek is walled on both sides by stone fences. Each stone painstakingly placed over the other. Their purpose initially to divide and define property lines, now they're simply reminders of the way things used to be done in the old days.
It is so narrow you can actually jump from one end to the other, if you don't mind getting your feet wet. Some sections have enough stepping stones exposed that you can safely make your way through. Yet other areas have a short log propped up across it to walk over. A poor man's bridge, you might say.
At night you can't see it, hidden behind its leaf clothing. But you can hear it. And when the stars are out in that clear wide sky it's the soundtrack of life itself. I haven't known that peace in a long time.