Today, we washed out the bed of Dad’s pickup truck with the hose. The water ran down the street in a tiny river, hugging the curb. The boys and I followed it, splashing with bare feet.

Michael brought an old broom from the garage and used it to splash the running water over buckles in the concrete. We decided to see if it got all the way down to the storm drain.

We stopped to make dams out of sticks, and watched as they forced the water farther out into the street. We snatched the sticks away and watched the water surge ahead, a valiant and insignificant trickle. Nothing mattered but the blue sky, and the warm sun, and that trickle making it to the storm drain.

Today, we were ragamuffins, jeans rolled up, ankles dirty, shoes anywhere but on our feet.

Today, we got amused looks from the neighbors.

Today, we were straight up Huck Finn.

We swept the water along, taking turns with the broom. We reached the storm drain and watched the water fall headlong through the grate.

I didn’t get the boys home in time for dinner, but I got them out of the street every time a car went by. We came home with our feet and hands dirty.

Today, the world felt a little bigger, and I felt a little smaller.

Today, we chased our goal and reached the journey’s end, and tomorrow I’ll fall headlong into a new adventure, refreshed from today’s stream–just enough water to trickle to the storm drain.