The character of my chosen stream emerged gradually in the wake of my initial investigation. The locale had been suggested, and a few hours of searching had revealed a steep, green vale with a culverted stream running underneath the road. I had disembarked from the car, and viewed its scope. From my line of sight on the road, I could see a strewn array of fallen and dut branches carpeting the steep slope edging down immediately in front of me. The limbs themselves were sturdy, and several segments were cut from single limbs, recently enough that all the scraps still retained their moss and lichen. Towards the base of this initial downward slope I trekked, with the limbs transfiguring to logs as the stump of the tree grew closer. The tree itself seemed to have been an old willow, and several thin tan strands branched from the triparted remains of the stump; however, the stump itself had not given up its life, and new budding growths sprang from the rooted remnants. In such fashion, I had come upon this stream and discerned some of its unfortunate nature. The park into which I entered was similarly accessed by the stream via a culvert under the road, with it pouring swiftly over solid granite lengths until mediating into a small, winding brook who carved pieces of its channel out in its laboured journey onward. In such fashion, my first impressions had been solidified into a portrait of optimism, one wherein small gems of life lived beautiful but stunted lives in the wake of suburban sprawl and belated protection.Â