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I followed an intermittent stream through the woods to the point where it vanished underground. Its margins were inch-thick mats of dry beech leaves. Where the stream vanished, it became a path of wet, dark brown earth.

If I were still a child, and time still thick and chewy, I'd have sat down there and used a stick to find the vanished water. I'd have made a little pond, a foot across. I'd have watched the sun sparkle on the water while the tree shadows shifted.