It's all about the river.

Yes, the fields of grass are pleasant: gently rolling, catching the sunlight, glinting occasionally as the sun reflects off the dew. Sheep graze lazily in the meadow. It is spring and while some of the lambs gambol about, others languidly revel in the sunlight.

The hedgerows beyond are dark, yet full of life. Birds call to and fro between them, marking the boundaries of the fields like the joins in a patchwork quilt.

Beyond the hedgerows, the mountains slowly climb to their snow-capped peaks. Green-wooded foothills, blanketed luxuriously in fir trees, seem to softly emerge from the haze as the mist rises from the trees. Beyond the tree line, the vegetation dwindles, sparse and dark, almost purple, until we are left with only the bare, cold rock thrusting it's stubborn white heads toward the sky.

Across the river, more fields, then gently rolling grassy hills dabbled, as by a painter, with the yellow and blue of flowering crops. To the left, a wonderful splash of fiery red, where a patch of wild poppies has blossomed. In another golden field, a big red tractor moves slowly along the edge, its engine barely audible at this distance.

But the real magic of this place is the river.

There's a copse of trees and an old brick bridge. The trees cast shadows onto the water where a cloud of flies, intermittently capturing the light on their wings, sparkle like a million dainty fairies.

Garishly clad walkers tromp across the arch bridge, toting heaving picnic baskets, to finally set them down under a tree that willingly shares the shade it owns. Soon they are sitting on the ground. They open their baskets, drink water from bottles, coffee from thermos flasks, eat sandwiches and fruit. It is not long before the children remove both their shoes and socks and run down to the river bank where they will dangle their feet in the cool water.

Listening, I can hear rippling and gurgling, as the river, quite shallow here, inexorably moves toward the sea. Boulders flick up parts of the water, turning the clear liquid to opaque white. Here and there, an occasional deeper pool, relatively undisturbed by the current, reveals water that is brackish and brown; a testament to it's source up in the peaty marshes on the hills.

A family of ducks nests in the reeds at the riverbank. At this time of year, it is not unusual to see the mother duck leading her young, newly hatched, along a trail by the river, every so often diving into the mud at the shallow edges. The bravest of the young play in the faster moving areas of the water, like canoeists paddling through the rapids.

On the bank, sits a young boy, fishing rod in hand, line dangling in the water. His father is nearby, teaching him how to fish. He hasn't caught anything yet but he doesn't really care. He's enjoying the outdoors, the warmth of the sun and the simple pleasure of being with his dad.

It's a magical place... the place I escape to, in my head, when the real word just becomes too much!

The late afternoon sun beamed with silent pleasure as feathery wisps of clouds tickled his western rim. He paused for a moment, allowing the misty fingers to brush across his fiery skin before he let himself nestle down in the soft bed of clouds stretched out along the horizon. The clouds sighed at his loving touch and glowed with a brilliant carroty joy. A lone star winked at the sun from across the sky, where the sapphire skies darkened little by little to the dark velvet of night. The sun winked back, and then turned his gaze to the ballet of life playing out below him.

Bunches of tall, proud reeds weaved and danced to the whistling breeze. Tiny golden ripples ran across the glassy surface of the pond, bouncing off swaying reeds and stoic moss-covered stones. Wriggly tadpoles dodged in and out of the rushes in a frenetic game of tag, scattering several aged trout who flicked their fins in annoyance at the careless youngsters. A water strider hopping over the ripples watched the action from above and chuckled at one of the grumbling, stodgy old trout. The trout whipped around and shot after the water strider, which sprung onto a small boulder poking out of the water. There was a muffled thud as the fish collided with the rock. He floated for a moment, dazed and angry at the gloating bug. There was another muffled thud as a reckless tadpole slammed into the base of the trout’s tail. The trout turned to nip at the little beast, putting his already bruised skull in the path of a trio of speedy tadpoles. Beaten, he swam off in search of refuge among the rocks.

A rabbit ambled up to the edge of the pond, lowered his fuzzy pink nose and lapped up his fill of cool, refreshing water. He sat for a while, breathing in the sweet-smelling spring air. The breeze ruffled the earth brown fur on his back and kissed the tips of his silky soft ears. He settled down into the spongy soil on the shore and nibbled at a clump of grass. Chewing happily, he closed his eyes and let the late afternoon sun embrace him and warm the slight chill given to him by the mischievous wind.

Soaring trees resplendent in new foliage and vivid blossoms shivered in light puffs of the cooling breeze. Chirping squirrels scampered up and down trunks and bounded from branch to branch. Tiny claws glinted and fuzzy tails whipped about as nuts trapped in sharp teeth were transported to lofty nests, where they would be nibbled and crunched into oblivion. Every so often, an irritated squeak punctuated the busy hustling of nuts as a distracted squirrel lost his grip and let his prize clatter to the ground, where enterprising young rodents lingered and looted for fallen treasures.

High above the tadpoles and the squirrels, the sun nestled further down into his bed of clouds and inched his way to the horizon. Three more stars blinked awake in the east and twinkled at the sleepy sun and living earth.

So ends another fine spring day.

Little red numbers float along, seemingly changing every second. 6:55. 6:56. 7:00. 7:10.

Wait, 7:10? Oh no!

Blurs of color fly by, seen through half-opened eyes as I rush to the door. The bells hanging on the door are thrown to the ground as it flies open, SLAMming into the side of the house. A flash of yellow begins to drive away as soon as I reach the road.

Shoot, that was the bus. Okay, then I'm walking.

Walking, walking, walking. Wow, this road is really long. Have there always been so many houses on the way to school? It seems a lot shorter on the bus...Wait, was that the turn, or is it this next one? No, it must be the next one, I always pass by Mrs. Smith's house on the way. I think.

Ok, it's this turn. Good. What time is it? 7:25? I'm going to be late! I'd better hurry, or I'll end up in detention. I wish I had brought my bike with me, I would have gotten here a lot faster.

Finally, here's the school. This parking lot never seems so long on the bus. Wow, I'd bet there are at least two hundred cars in there...it's no wonder the traffic is so horrible here in the morning. Really, it's no wonder that Mom doesn't like driving me to school in the morning.

Alright, into the school now. I still have two minutes to get to class before I'm late. I'd better pick it up a little bit, I need to get to the other side of the school...

Beep beep beep!

Only 60 seconds left? My watch must be off. Forget getting to my locker, I have to run. Let's see, which room was it? A221...A223...A225...here it is, A227! And just in time.

Beep beep beep!

I hate being rushed in the morning.