True to itself, the brook is sky. Rain blurs reflections of trees, of farmland, of me. My heart recalls a life becoming: wearing my pajamas to the drive-in each Saturday night…Georgie, our Newfoundland, lying down in this brook as the water flowed around him…new summer dawns in which to sleep late…fussing over the cattails growing tall…splashing, hollering, racing with cousins on this property. This brook saw my first kiss with a boy. Rain begins to fall harder sketching grayed ghosts of barns and silos in the distance. I came today hoping to find a piece of my past. True to itself, the brook became every childhood memory.