A winding silver brook gurgles in the woods of early autumn,finding its way along the ragged banks aside and now and then past moss grown rocks in between. Naughty as it is, the brook secretly whirls away for its companion the swaying leaves, which resemble the floating shinning stars in the Milky Way. Overhead is a bold bough lies against the rust colored slopes of two banks, lingering on the last pride with its long and remaining thorns. It is not alone. Broken branches, twigs, trunks, stark or moss-covered, are all randomly scattered along or across the brook. They attempt to stop the flow by standing in its way, but all in vain. Several poor stumps, like Amah Rocks, silently observe the cheerful brook, sigh unheard. Trees can rot and leaves can decay, even the rocks can suffer erosion,but the brook shall never possibly be stopped or delayed.
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