The top of the old-growth Longleaf pine seems to disappear into a blue sky canopy. It hasn’t been disturbed by man’s whim or nature’s storms. Here in the sheltered stream bed equidistant in the half-mile stretch of gravel road between our home and the gate, it feels like time stands still. Tiny black fish dart from the natural spring through the culvert under the road and reappear on the other side, where the stream meanders and eventually joins with a fecund swamp. I’m thinking of dragging a bench or a chair into the dark heart of the dry gully adjacent to the stream bed so I can sit there, still as a mouse, and listen to owls, flying squirrels, woodpeckers and the quick splash of deer through the spring.