Flowing Creek Quotes

And I feel like the Queen of Water. I feel like water that transforms from a flowing river to a tranquil lake to a powerful waterfall to a freshwater spring to a meandering creek to a salty sea to raindrops gentle on your face to hard, stinging hail to frost on a mountaintop, and back to a river again.

Marsh is not swamp. Marsh is a space of light, where grass grows in water, and water flows into the sky. Slow-moving creeks wander, carrying the orb of the sun with them to the sea, and long-legged birds lift with unexpected grace—as though not built to fly—against the roar of a thousand snow geese. Then within the marsh, here and there, true swamp crawls into low-lying bogs, hidden in clammy forests. Swamp water is still and dark, having swallowed the light in its muddy throat. Even night crawlers are diurnal in this lair. There are sounds, of course, but compared to the marsh, the swamp is quiet because decomposition is cellular work. Life decays and reeks and returns to the rotted duff; a poignant wallow of death begetting life.

Toward the back of the small property, Twentymile Creek flows through a ravine two to three feet deep and three times as wide. The waters of the creek, high and vigorous from recent rains, purl noisily around stones bearded with green moss and swatched with lichen. There she finds the body, stretched across the frothing stream.

. . .To go as a river . .had taken me a long while to understand. . . meant. . .flowing forward against obstacle . . .like the river, I had also gathered along the way all the tiny pieces connecting me to everything else, and doing this had delivered me here, with two fists of forest soil in my palms and a heart still learning to be unafraid of itself. I had been shaped by my kindred— my lost family and lost love; my found friendships, though few; my trees that kept on living and every tree that gave me shelter; every creature I met along the way, every raindrop and snowflake choosing my shoulder, and every breeze that shifted the air; every winding path beneath my feet, every place I laid my hands and head, and every creek like the one before me, rolling off the hillside, gaining strength in gravity, spinning through the next eddy, pushing around the next bend, taking and giving in quiet agreement with every living thing.

Falling in love creates beauty in every facet of life. A hovering bee, a gentle flowing creek, pale blue sky, the crinkle at the corner of an old woman’s eye, bare feet on velvet moss, a songbird in a bush, even the howl of a far away wolf become so beautiful to those finding a new love. It was like that for Sassy and Hanlon, everything seemed sharper and clearer. It was like a new view of the world that they had never known existed had opened up to them. Doug Hiser Montana Mist

In reality, a river's basic shape... is not a line but a tree. A river is, in its essence, a thing that branches... Although it flows inward toward its trunk, in geological time it grew, and continues to grow, outward, like an organism, from its ocean outlet to its many headwaters. In the vernacular of a new science, it is fractal, its structure echoing itself on all scales, from river to stream to brook to creek to rivulet, branches too small to name and too many to count.

Facing the sagging middle when writing a novel, while inevitable, may be overcome by pre-planning. I divide my collection of proposed scenes into three acts, each scene inciting tension that builds toward the final crisis in Act Three. If by Act Two the emotional river isn't spilling over the banks, I reassess the plot so that once the writing is flowing I don't slide into a dry creek. The central character should be struggling to navigate life well into the end of Act One, even if her fiercest antagonist is only from within.

Indian Creek, in its whole length, flows through a magnificent forest. There dwells on its shore a tribe of Indians, a remnant of the Chickasaws or Chickopees, if I remember rightly. They live in simple huts, ten or twelve feet square, constructed of pine poles and covered with bark. They subsist principally on the flesh of the deer, the coon, and opossum, all of which are plenty in these woods. Sometimes they exchange venison for a little corn and whisky with the planters on the bayous. Their usual dress is buckskin breeches and calico hunting shirts of fantastic colors, buttoned from belt to chin. They wear brass rings on their wrists, and in their ears and noses. The dress of the squaws is very similar.

Like standing in a creek with the water flowing against your legs, you know?

There was a creek nearby, flowing past a textile mill and under the highway. He cooled his beer in the water

Lily has never gotton used to being alone. They turn in the water and turn again, then Ambrose lifts her above the surface once more and the creek rains down from her. He lays her gently on her back and her heart breaks. Her tears begin to flow because he is leaving - don't go! He sinks into the water on his back - take me with you! His body turns white again and shimmers into segments until all the pieces disappear. Lily lies face down at right angles to the creek, her head hanging over the edge, arms outstretched towards the spot where she last saw her brother.

Self-consciousness, however, does hinder the experience of the present. It is the one instrument that unplugs all the rest. So long as I lose myself in a tree, say, I can scent its leafy breath or estimate its board feet of lumber, I can draw its fruits or boil tea on its branches, and the tree stays tree. But the second I become aware of myself at any of these activities -- looking over my own shoulder, as it were -- the tree vanishes, uprooted from the spot and flung out of sight as if it had never grown. And time, which had flowed down into the tree bearing new revelations like floating leaves at ever moment, ceases. It dams, stills, stagnates. (Harper Perennial Edition 82)

Seeing the God statement Suppose the statement Blessed Are the pure in heart, for they shall see God were placed like a wreath of violets, Lilies, laurel, and olive, blossoms strung together Like words in a sentence, a garland Launched, set out on a flowing creek Imagine that wreath carried Down the frothy rapids, tossed, floating Slipping over water-smooth, moss-colored Boulders, in and out of slow, dark pools, Through poplar and willow shadows. It dips, Sinks momentarily, emerges, travels, maitains Its ring, its declaration and syntax. At times it widens in a broad, deep Current, makes sense as a gift. The pure becomes inclusive, spatial, Generous. God and heart are two Spread wings of one open reading. And at times it narrows, restricts. Violets and heart entangle With God. The blessed braces, Overlaps lilies and laurel. Still, at any point you might reach down yourself, catch that ring of blossoms, lift it up, wear its beauty and blooming distinction across your forehead. Look into a mirror. See what you can see.

If the creek predates the city deep in time, then is it right to identify the creek solely with the city? The city has forgotten the creek, as it's forgotten those who walk its side, but the creek didn't need to be known all that long time before the city ever was. Maybe now Hogan's Creek is too steeped in history to claim an independence grounded in prehistory, because the city has too deeply poisoned it for far too long. Then again, there was all that time the creek flowed and had no name. Without a name you belong solely to yourself.

She's shed her skins and plasma jeans, gets around in 2K retro gear like the frock she wears today; a loose, white elegy to what's been lost. Already she's flowing back into herself the way a river flows to fill a creek bed. But some hard layer has washed away and left her softer, more interested.

Marsh is not swamp. Marsh is a space of light, where grass grows in water, and water flows into the sky. Slow-moving creeks wander, carrying the orb of the sun with them to the sea, and long-legged birds lift with unexpected grace—as though not built to fly—against the roar of a thousand snow geese.

Chloroplasts bear chlorophyll; they give the green world its color, and they carry out the business of photosynthesis. Around the inside perimeter of each gigantic cell trailed a continuous loop of these bright green dots. They spun . . . they pulsed, pressed, and thronged . . . they shone, they swarmed in ever-shifting files around and around the edge of the cell; they wandered, they charged, they milled, raced . . . they flowed and trooped greenly . . . All the green in the planted world consists of these whole, rounded chloroplasts . . . If you analyze a molecule of chlorophyll itself, what you get is one hundred thirty-six atoms of hydrogen, carbon, oxygen, and nitrogen arranged in an exact and complex relationship around a central ring. At the ring’s center is a single atom of magnesium. Now: If you remove the atom of magnesium and in its place put an atom of iron, you get a molecule of hemoglobin. The iron atom combines with all the other atoms to make red blood, the streaming red dots in the goldfish’s tail.

I've been thinking about what it means to bear witness. The past ten years I've been bearing witness to death, bearing witness to women I love, and bearing witness to the [nuclear] testing going on in the Nevada desert. I've been bearing witness to bombing runs on the edge of the Cabeza Prieta Wildlife Refuge, bearing witness to the burning of yew trees and their healing secrets in slash piles in the Pacific Northwest and thinking this is not so unlike the burning of witches, who also held knowledge of heading within their bones. I've been bearing witness to traplines of coyotes being poisoned by the Animal Damage Control. And I've been bearing witness to beauty, beauty that strikes a chord so deep you can't stop the tears from flowing. At places as astonishing as Mono Lake, where I've stood knee-deep in salt-water to watch the fresh water of Lee Vining Creek flow over the top like water on vinegar....It's the space of angels. I've been bearing witness to dancing grouse on their leks up at Malheur in Oregon. Bearing witness to both the beauty and pain of our world is a task that I want to be part of. As a writer, this is my work. By bearing witness, the story that is told can provide a healing ground. Through the art of language, the art of story, alchemy can occur. And if we choose to turn our backs, we've walked away from what it means to be human.

In the dry places, men begin to dream, wrote Wright Morris, who grew up north of here, in Nebraska. Where rivers run sand, something in man begins to flow. I thought I knew exactly what he meant. The sandy beds of dry creeks unfurl evocatively into the beckoning distance, inscribing their faint script over the land. They entice the exploring spirit.

Here at the creek mouth the fields run on to the river, the mud deltaed and baring out of its rich alluvial harbored bones and dread waste, a wrack of cratewood and condoms and fruitrinds. Old tins and jars and ruined household artifacts that rear from the fecal mire of the flats like landmarks in the trackless vales of dementia praecox. A world beyond all fantasy, malevolent and tactile and dissociate, the blown lightbulbs like shorn polyps semitranslucent and skullcolored bobbing blindly down and spectral eyes of oil and now and again the beached and stinking forms of foetal humans bloated like young birds mooneyed and bluish or stale gray. Beyond in the dark the river flows in a sluggard ooze toward southern seas, running down out of the rainflattened corn and petty crops and riverloam gardens of upcountry landkeepers, grating along like bonedust, afreight with the past, dreams dispersed in the water someway, nothing ever lost.

man’s quest to grasp a full understanding of God’s character being like a boy following a trickling brook as it flowed downstream. Step by step, as he followed each babble and turn, he learned more and more about the little brook. Soon, the brook he knew well widened into a fast-moving creek with deepening pools, and eventually flowed into a mighty river. As he walked the bank he grew to know the river well. Day by day he understood it better. Until one day he looked up and the river became an ocean.

Windblown, last ice shudders on the creek, creek holding the land's bright spring. Blossoms drip and drip and drip. Jade melts, setting the newborn dragon loose, scales glittering into rippling curves clear. Spring thaw begun, I bathe in these scented waters, distant, a thousand miles of ice split open, kindhearted warmth in every ladleful. Frozen spirits rinsing each other clean, trickles struggle into life and flow anew. Suddenly, as if all sword wounds were over, the body of a hundred battles begins rising.

Chapter 3, The Dark Forest....The sound of flowing water echoed in the distance and then the path converged upon a creek full of fast, rippling, white water cascading over brown and red colored rocks. Moss dangled across the pathway and swung back and forth as the trespassers moved under the green vegetation. Bright yellow fingers of sunlight attempted to filter through the dense tundra to touch the moist earth until finally, the appendages of light disappeared completely. “Come children, this way,” called Mrs. Beetle leading her group over a moldy, moss-laden, wood bridge.

There was this thin meandering creek that wound past the old summer cottage. And sliding down the slight bank, I would gently pull aside the scattering of stalky weeds and elegant wildflowers that edged the flowing rivulet of crystalline water. And there, in that oh so tiny and forgotten place, a whole world of living things danced in the waters, frolicked on the scattering of assorted pebbles, and gingerly crawled on the emerald moss that generously lined both banks. And staring at the wonder of that tiny, forgotten place, I thought that life is not about grand destinations. Rather, it’s about realizing that we are already in a destination.

Two Points of View If I forget, — May joy pledge this weak heart to sorrow! If I forget, — May my soul's coloured summer borrow The hueless tones of storm and rain, Of ruth and terror, shame and pain, — If I forget! Though you forget, — There is no binding code for beauty; Though you forget, — Love was your charm, but not your duty; And life's worst breeze must never bring A ruffle to your silken wing, — Though you forget. If I forget, — The salt creek may forget the ocean; If I forget, — The heart whence flows my heart's bright motion, May I sink meanlier than the worst, Abandoned, outcast, crushed, accurst, — If I forget! Though you forget, — No word of mine shall mar your pleasure; Though you forget, — You filled my barren life with treasure, You may withdraw the gift you gave, You still are lord, I still am slave, — Though you forget.

Here at the creek mouth the fields run on to the river, the mud deltaed and baring out of its rich alluvial harbored bones and dread waste, a wrack of cratewood and condoms and fruitrinds. Old tins and jars and ruined household artifacts that rear from the fecal mire of the flats like landmarks in the trackless vales of dementia praecox. A world beyond all fantasy, malevolent and tactile and dissociate, the blown lightbulbs like shorn polyps semitranslucent and skullcolored bobbing blindly down and spectral eyes of oil and now and again the beached and stinking forms of foetal humans bloated like young birds mooneyed and bluish or stale gray. Beyond in the dark the river flows in a sluggard ooze toward southern seas, running down out of the rain flattened corn and petty crops and riverloam gardens of upcountry land keepers, grating along like bonedust,

Turbines designed for low-flow situations would be wasteful in times of high water. Turbines designed for high efficiency at, say, five hundred cubic feet per second might be ineffective in times of low water. Under certain conditions, turbines can go into a state of cavitation, wherein vaporizing water creates bubbles that implode on the metal and riddle it with tiny holes. The ideal turbine for a little mill up a creek somewhere in inconsistent country would be one that was prepared to take whatever might come, to sit there and react calmly in any situation, to respond evenly to wild and sudden demands, to make the best of difficult circumstances, to remain steadfast in time of adversity, to keep going, above all to press on, to persevere, and not vibrate, fibrillate, vacillate, cavitate, or panic - in short, to accept with versatile competence what is known in hydroelectrical engineering as the run of the river.

But I like to think of life in the same way I think of flowing water. Sometimes, the creeks, the streams, and the lakes will all be dry. Filled with carnage, broken branches, dead leaves, dust, and dirt. But then the rain comes, and all the tiny droplets of water merge together to create the river once more.

In our acknowledgment of the continued presence of Lenape people in their homeland, we affirm the aspiration of the great Lenape Chief Tamanend, that there be harmony between the indigenous people of this land and the descendants of the immigrants to this land, ‘as long as the rivers and creeks flow, and the sun, moon, and stars shine.

But when they had marched for about an hour in the dense fog, the greater part of the men had to halt and an unpleasant consciousness of some dislocation and blunder spread through the ranks. How such a consciousness is communicated is very difficult to define, but it certainly is communicated very surely, and flows rapidly, imperceptibly, and irrepressibly, as water does in a creek.

Beth’s body was written in cursive. Elegant, flowing lines that curved and dipped as they went from commonality to art. She was abstract poetry; prose that I’d never forget. Structured, yet fluid. The meandering form that created life was a lyric I wanted to be stuck in my head all day.

Maybe that was the deepest lesson I’d learned in Wildwood: that life should never be a stagnant thing. That just like the rivers, we thrive when the water flows in and washes away the silt of the past. All the debris we cling to doesn’t keep us afloat, it kills the life within us.

The New England wilderness March 1, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees And then a creek, so fast-flowing that even in this wicked cold it had not frozen. The Indians stood in ice water up to their thighs, handing the small children across, but the adults had to wade. Wet clothing froze to the body. In this wind, at this temperature, that could spell death. Should you fall in and get entirely wet, could you even get back on your feet in the force of that current? Would not your heart stop and your lungs fill? The adults dithered fearfully along the ice-rimmed rocks. Lord, thought Mercy, wishing for solid English shoes instead of Indian slippers, I have to get myself over, I can’t let Daniel fall in; Ruth needs help, she hasn’t thrown anything today because she’s so tired she can hardly put one foot in front of another. Joanna can’t see and Eliza is still only half here. When her turn came, however, the Indians lifted Daniel from her arms and passed him safely to the other side. Mercy took a deep breath, steeling herself to enter the frigid water, but Tannhahorens lifted her as if she weighed nothing and set her ashore, dry and safe. “Thank you, Tannhahorens,” she said. They handed Ruth over as well, but Ruth did not thank them. “How could you?” she said to Mercy as the march went on. “How could you thank that man for anything? He killed your family.

Remember that a burst of enthusiasm usually accompanies a new idea and that the tendency is for you to hurry and tell someone. The mental energy generated by your idea is thereby dissipated in talk rather than in thought. After you talk about it for while, you grow tired. Your idea flows out through the mouth like a weak, shallow creek. The energy that would have developed the idea is released and the idea dies. Don't you talk to anybody about any idea until you have fully developed it!

The night air was still and damp rising from the mud banks of the creek. Our lives had been determined by the random flow of water through weaknesses in the soil. Where there was water there was humanity. Especially now, with no stable forms of transportation, our villages were all based on the flow of water. From the sides of the mountains we’d traversed just days ago it looked like an open expanse of nothing. From here it looked like an open expanse of nothing. Staring into the void above, it was the same nothing. Staring into my heart was the only form of anything solid and that was suspect at best.

Beyond the harm to local wildlife, any chemicals we used in our garden might end up polluting our well, or run off the property. In a heavy rainstorm, this runoff may end up in nearby Beaver Creek, a tributary to the Brandywine Creek, which runs into the Delaware River, which flows into the Atlantic Ocean. These kinds of direct connections with the outside world exist in every garden, which is why I think we should always aim, in our gardening practices, to do the least harm and the greatest good.

The jar quickly drained between them, with Kimmie drinking most of it, until only the soaked flower lay at the bottom. Kimmie reached in with her fingers and brought it to Lee's face with mischief glistering in her eyes. She tickled the tip of her nose and trailed it down. Without thinking, Lee closed her eyes and parted her lips. She felt it fill her mouth like a soft spider. The petals were jellied and lush as she bit softly and chewed. The taste was an overwhelming version of the liquor itself. A phantasm of undiluted shifting flavors: honey, leaves, bubblegum, ash, blood. When she finally swallowed, she lay back on the ground with the force of it. Her skin tingled like something was coming up through her pores. Thin roots sprouted from every inch of skin that touched the grass: the back of her head, her shoulder blades, her thighs. They probed into the dirt and snaked their way down, farther into the earth, branching and spreading below her. She could feel the roots glowing. An electricity crackled through her, and she knew it was the power of the land. They were connected. She sensed the groundwater flowing below as it fed the wells of the houses tucked into the mountains. When she focused on the water itself, she could access the memories it held, of every living thing that ever made a home on this land. A dinosaur lapping from a creek with its long tongue. A prehistoric woman peering down into its reflective surface and seeing herself staring back. She could sense the coal, the natural gas, the zinc, the marble, nestled like treasure deep within the clay and stone.

She was private, and uptight, and a workaholic. But that didn't mean she was frigid. Not with the way she hummed and licked her lips when she bit into a ripe strawberry. Or how she'd stared at my bare stomach that time after my run. Passion flowed under Ellie's surface like a creek under rocks. You couldn't see the water, but if you listened, you would know it was there.

The pond transforms and becomes Ravenna Creek. The dancing water flows right next to the footpath. The three amble down the path and hear the stream burbling. It sings to everyone in the park. Johann listens to the melody of the water.

The helicopter roved toward the creek; maybe Zach had fallen in, borne along in the current that flowed west toward Coralville.

What I do here matters. Everybody lives downstream. My pond drains to the brook, to the creek, to a great and needful lake. The water net connects us all. I have shed tears into that flow when I thought that motherhood would end. But the pond has shown me that being a good mother doesn’t end with creating a home where just my children can flourish. A good mother grows into a richly eutrophic old woman, knowing that her work doesn’t end until she creates a home where all of life’s beings can flourish. There are grandchildren to nurture, and frog children, nestlings, goslings, seedlings, and spores, and I still want to be a good mother.

They approach the low-water bridge where Frio Creek Flowed into the Purgatory River. Over the bridge, they passed the eighteen-hole golf course and club house, all built in the river bottom. 'All this had been made safe from flooding by the Corps of Engineers and the U.S. Geological Survey,' Elliot Announced. 'How did they do that?' Maxwell looked around in amazement. "They sent a lot of majors and colonels and government surveyors and simply announced in wouldn't flood here anymore. Cut right through all that environment red tape and reality

If I forget, — May joy pledge this weak heart to sorrow! If I forget, — May my soul's coloured summer borrow The hueless tones of storm and rain, Of ruth and terror, shame and pain, — If I forget! Though you forget, — There is no binding code for beauty; Though you forget, — Love was your charm, but not your duty; And life's worst breeze must never bring A ruffle to your silken wing, — Though you forget. If I forget, — The salt creek may forget the ocean; If I forget, — The heart whence flows my heart's bright motion, May I sink meanlier than the worst, Abandoned, outcast, crushed, accurst, — If I forget! Though you forget, — No word of mine shall mar your pleasure; Though you forget, — You filled my barren life with treasure, You may withdraw the gift you gave, You still are lord, I still am slave, — Though you forget.

Classical theology saw nature as a book, reading its symbols in order to understand the mind of a heavenly author. Our culture reads nature like a map, defined by roads leading to roads leading to places of money, the land merely blank space…there is another kind of vision. The eyes feel the curve and slope of the earth as it flows, following the water to the sea. The mind follows as well, wondering what creek lies below, what stream below that, what river. It is a geographic vision. What is here does not end here; all is unbroken. Place molds the sensual mind. The essays in this book are now also part of…the grain of this place. They explore with uncommon sensitivity what it means to be at home on the earth. There is no one way to do so; there are various kinds of settings in which this can and must be accomplished…what we make of ourselves and of our society is linked to what we make of the earth, and how we let the earth make us.

she flows down from the sky and comes out of the ground in a wild and innocent spring, unspoiled, which bubbles and babbles and gathers into a creek, to flow through the forest, unspoiled, dancing in twist after turn, falling down rock walls and catching her breath in aquamarine pools below, playing with reflections of all the trees, flowing on and on and on, unspoiled, across, over, between, and down rocks, roots, and pine needles, as she nourishes everything around her she touches with her love, unspoiled... ― bodhinku, the waters unspoiled

Yet four more years would pass before rock oil began to flow in volume in Pennsylvania. Once the Silliman report established that petroleum had value as an illuminant, the problem remained how to extract enough from the Oil Creek site to make the venture profitable. In the meantime, the company went through several more reorganizations as the New Haven investors contrived to cut the New York men out of the deal. In 1858 a new entity, the Seneca Oil Company of New Haven, Connecticut, swallowed up the Pennsylvania Rock Oil Company.44 Banker James Townsend and his fellow New Haven investors took control, brought in a new associate, a local man named Edwin L. Drake, and elected him president. It was Drake, improbably, who would find a way to release petroleum from its stone detention underground.

The first rail connection reached Titusville in 1862, eventually superseding the artificial-freshet mêlée. In its first fourteen months, the new Oil Creek Rail Road carried away more than 430,000 barrels of oil and delivered more than 459,000 empty barrels to the oil well sites; sixty thousand passengers traveled in and out of the region by rail during the same period.8 The ultimate improvement would be pipelines to move the oil from the wellhead to the railroad. Those came in various gauges from two to six inches, the oil flowing by gravity or pumped by steam, beginning in 1863.

the order of things, whereas structural violence becomes apparent because it stands out like an enormous rock in a creek, impeding the free flow, creating all kinds of eddies and turbulences.5

The plan succeeded very well, and she followed it all summer, but she lost the shaded ravine and the upper creek as a pleasant place to go, and she bathed no more in the water. The white stones and the moss stones of the furthest creek became beautiful in memory. The name, Joe Trent, went out of her being slowly. For weeks the mention of it brought a first flush of warmth to her mind and a gentle flow of momentary joy to all her members. ‘Friend’ lay in thought with the word, ‘Somebody I might know all my life. A body to tell things to.

Maybe more than the building itself, the land around the orphanage and the elaborate network of footpaths create for the kids a sense of place. There are trails through the birch and pine, across fields where, every spring, the kids burn leaves and work the ash into the soil and plant potatoes, trails that lead to the river, to the school, to the village, to ponds and creeks and springs flowing up from beneath the ground with cool, drinkable water, trails that are a story in themselves, worn by wandering feet over fifty years, worn by joy and hope and habit and need, trails like a sentence spoken, each a whisper about the surrounding world, a dialogue with doubt or desire that’s ultimately answered by a destination. Many of the children have either no history or a severely foreshortened sense of the past, but these trails, worked into the grass or through the forests by others before them, send the kids off to play in a shared world—shared not just in physical space, but down through time. It must in some humble way ease the isolation, like Crusoe finding a footprint in the sand.

Salvation Creek flows till date, endless tears of motherly love and manly regret.