Along the smallest streams like those that hide at the edge of your property hidden by two fields and a swell of the ground; 

Along the smallest streams where waist-high grass grows right up to the water and the tallest stalks lean out to admire their reflections; 

Along the smallest streams where the water maybe isn't so polluted, where the current isn't strong enough to stir the mud, where the water is shallow enough to see the bottom; 

Along the smallest streams where the wind whispers to the wildflowers and the water coyly giggles to see you eavesdropping; 

Along the smallest streams where the clouds make believe they skim along the glassy surface rather than the sky; 

Along the smallest streams where plants can grow in the channel and banks become uncertain impressions rather than hard facts; 

Along the smallest streams where one well-placed boulder can keep your calves from getting splashed; 

Along the smallest streams where you question if you need the boulder, or if you could just make it with one committed leap; 

Along the smallest streams invisible unless you know they're there among the grass and fields and isolated stands of trees; 

Along these smallest of streams the creek fairies live with the birds and insects, the tadpoles and frogs, the ground squirrels and raccoons and occasional wayward beaver.  

They dangle their toes in the water from half-submerged rocks, coo at the tadpoles as they hatch, teach the baby birds to fly, shoo the mosquitos away gently, and dance among the lightning bugs in the twilight.  

And if they happen to say "crick" rather than "creek", what does it matter to you and me?  For they do us no harm, and keep to themselves, and have a much better chance of living in harmony.