brooks

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,And ye that on the sands with printless footDo chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly himWhen he comes back; you demi-puppets thatBy moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastimeIs to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm__The noontide sun, call__ forth the mutinous winds,And __wixt the green sea and the azured vaultSet roaring war: to the dread rattling thunderHave I given fire and rifted Jove__ stout oakWith his own bolt; the strong-based promontoryHave I made shake and by the spurs pluck__ upThe pine and cedar: graves at my commandHave waked their sleepers, oped, and let __m forthBy my so potent art. But this rough magicI here abjure, and, when I have requiredSome heavenly music, which even now I do,To work mine end upon their senses thatThis airy charm is for, I__l break my staff,Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,And deeper than did ever plummet soundI__l drown my book.

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

What we have in life that we can count on is who we are and where we come from, she thought absently. For better or worse, that is what we have to sustain us in our endevors, to buttress us in our darker moments, and to remind us of our identity. Without those things, we are adrift.

Americans worship technology. It's an inherent trait in the national zeitgeist.