Doppler and I just took a walk outside. Skies are partly cloudy. The air is cool and refreshingly dry. There is a breeze, but not enough to rustle the leaves or cover the sound of Jepps Brook.
Judging by Google, I am the main chronicler of Jepps Brook. It’s the tiny stream a few hundred yards from my front door.
When a brook is small the effects of weather are pronounced and happen quickly.
This week, a month’s worth of rain has sent white water rushing over the smooth boulders that lie in Jepps Brook’s bed. It has temporarily widened the brook, much like a snake that’s swallowed a mouse.
The brook is loud tonight. It’s not New York City loud. You can’t make that comparison.
There are no individual noises, like car horns or sirens. The brook’s signature is white noise.
I have driven past Jepps Brook nearly every day for 23 years. I always slow down. I always look. I am never disappointed. It is endlessly beautiful.
On nights like tonight you don’t need to see it to know it’s there.
When we leave I will miss Jepps Brook as much as I miss any person.