My grandparents live on a farm just out of Donnellson. Out of their back door, there are two fields. Every other year, they plant corn in those fields. In between the two fields, there is a small stream. That stream is used to irrigate those fields. The sweet smelling tall grasses that surround the two streams sway gently in the wind. They tell a story.

They tell of when the land was wild and free, uncontrolled by human hands. The mud was not trampled by human feet, and the land was not plowed over by machines. The little brown field mice burrowed in the ground, and the beautiful blue-birds sang sweet melodies into the soft air. Striped green garden snakes laid in the soft, cool mud, and graceful fish swam through the glittering stream.

When I bring my younger brothers and cousins to the stream, they don't see it. They swim, or play, or explore. It isn't as special to them as it is to me. They just don't seem to hear the story, or enjoy the scenery.

The stream is my place to day dream, think, or just be alone. I can romp like a little kid again, or dream of when I am older, and all “Grown Up”. I explore, and can pretend to be a mountain climber, a bird watcher, or even a celebrity. Whatever the reason I'm there, I can just be me.

I know that someday the stream will run dry. The grasses will be cut down, and the animals will run away. But I will still be there, telling my story and my reasons, about my special place.