The Yellow Springs. [Photo by a blind flaneur]
Whenever I walk in the Glen I plan my homeward path so I can pass by the Yellow Springs and take a drink. Cool, clean spring water pouring forth from the rocks feels like my birthright. I’ve been drinking there all my life.
Whenever I come home from Canada, the U.S. border agents ask where I live. I take pride in naming a place so tangible, earthly, and ever-flowing. It’s more than a destination on a map. It’s a revelation you can reach only by walking, with thirst, through the woods.