Riding across the country one bright day in March, I saw and felt, as if for the first time, what an addition to the satisfaction one has in the open air at this season are the clear, full streams. They come to the front as it were, and lure and hold the eye. There are no weeds, or grasses, or foliage to hide them, they are full to the brim, and fuller; they catch and reflect the sunbeams, and are about the only objects of life and motion in nature. The trees stand so still, the fields are so hushed and naked, the mountains so exposed and rigid, that the eye falls upon the blue, sparkling, undulating watercourses with a peculiar satisfaction.
The little brown brooks—how swift and full they ran! One fancied something gleeful and hilarious in them. And the large creeks—how steadily they rolled on, trailing their ample skirts along the edges of the fields and marshes, and leaving ragged patches of water here and there! Many a gentle slope spread, as it were, a turfy apron in which reposed a little pool and lakelet. Many a stream sent little detachments across lots, the sparkling water seeming to trip lightly over the turf. Here and there an oak or an elm stood knee deep in a clear pool, as if rising from its bath. It gives one a fresh, genial feeling to see such a bountiful supply of pure, running water. One’s desires and affinities go out toward the full streams. They give eyes to the fields; they give dimples and laughter; they give light and motion.
March water is usually clean, sweet water; every brook is a trout brook, a mountain brook; the cold and the snow have supplied the condition of a high latitude; no stagnation, no corruption, comes downstream now. Winter comes down, liquid and repentant. Indeed, it is more than water that runs then: it is frost subdued; it is spring triumphant.
John Burroughs

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