During a wind storm, I climbed Patriot Hill. At the summit, I saw a fold in the land between two hills. I followed the ridge, and from Stone Circle Hill, I walked down the cedar covered slope into the hidden valley. The wind ceased, and the only sound was the chirps of spring peepers and the twittering of snow birds. A silty stream flows over the roots of a moss bound swamp oak. The coffee colored water flows to a still pond sheltered from the wind by a grassy plateau.