The Crick {Fine Art Photography, Effingham, Illinois}

  It's not a creek, a brook, a rivulet, or a stream.  Around these parts, it's called a crick.  This particular one runs through my parents woods and I played in it constantly as a child.  My brothers and cousins and I built a multitude of dams and even caught craw-daddies and cooked them up. I once stepped on a piece of glass while wading through it and my brothers had to carry me to the house.  I may have been overly dramatic because I don't remember getting stitches.  I love this crick and now it's Tharin's turn to enjoy it.