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From the pond, in the field,
is where the brooks life starts,
it flows down through the open meadow,
and enters in the woods.
The depth it always changes,
from flood to just a trickle.
Down through time,
two hedge rows formed,
one on either side.
In the trees, the banks do rise,
and keep it hidden well.
The little brook moves on down,
increasing in its size,
it meets up with the creek,
and flows on to the lake.
The memories I hold so deep,
playing in the brook,
remind me that what starts small,
doesn't stay small long.
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The little brook.
The little brook.
