in Thoreau’s Journal:

I am accustomed to regard the smallest brook with as much interest for the time being as if it were the Orinoco or Mississippi.

What is the difference, I would like to know, but mere size? And when a tributary rill empties in, it is like the confluence of famous rivers I have read of. When I cross one on a fence, I love to pause in mid-passage and look down into the water, and study its bottom, its little mystery.