This is Quinn Creek in early Autumn, before the change of color. There was a lot of rain at that time and the creek had swollen. This is the small section of creek running through the swamp end of The Farm. This picture is taken by my Dad from the gravel road as he stood on the old bridge.
I have tried, over the many years, to capture the essence of the creek. It is a small part of The Farm, just cuts across the corner of the swamp and there may be 250 yards of it actually on the property. It does not seem like much, but it is.
Simply put, the creek is time. It ebbs and flows, rises and falls, constantly changing, and yet, a constant. A touchstone, a marker from childhood, a sign post of the present, a guiding arrow to the future. The creek reflects images, in the still water of mid summer, to the gurgling flow of autumn, the bubbling rush of spring, the icy crystal of winter frost.
I do not own the creek. I borrow it, for a short time. It is there, and it is with me, always.