Dad & I were up in the Adirondacks, driving down after a week in the thin, fresh, freezing air of the mountains. We had hiked my favorite summit there, Cascade Mountain. I had fallen on that hike, my face smashing into a rock and crunching my eye pretty good. My eye had puffed up and the skin around it had turned a purplish-yellow. Dad hit the brakes hard just as I was contemplating my bruises in the rear view mirror.
"Garnet." He spoke the word with a finality that I rarely heard in his voice. He looked at me, smiled, jumped out of his seat and ran to the side of the road.
I followed, not sure where the hell his mind had gone. Then I heard it, slowly at first, but still steady: the rush of creekwater. I jumped over the bank after my father, to find him already in the water, feet braced on two rocks protruding above the surface, hands plunged into the silty bed. I grinned, and joined him there.
"I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay."
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