I'm getting braver by the day and venturing further and further into the back woods behind the house. After I'd gotten in my long-ish cardio walk—no stopping for pictures—I came home, grabbed my camera, and walked along a familiar route to the Noah-sized stream. There was very little to see in the natural history realm, because most of the interesting plants had succumbed to the frost, the declining daylength, and, in a word or two, the season. I knew this would be true, but it didn't all seem believable until I'd seen it with my own eyes and documented it with my camera. The little stream my son delighted in exploring—the one that now bears his name, at least, when I refer to the seasonal creek—is devoid of living plants, save the deep green and flourishing mosses and the spent leaves, a sign of life past... and life yet to come. Except for the gentle flow of water, it was quiet. How appropriate, I thought aloud, quiet in the quiet season.