I walked through small, stone homes in West Linton after waiting at the bus stop with Miguel. He was on his way to Roger's for the store's open hours that Saturday. It was raining, again. I was freezing in the light drizzle. My nose, cheeks, and toes were numb and my fingers stiff. Dark clouds overcasted a small market that I stumbled upon. The market's energy pulsed in the small church yard. Crafts, firewood, cheese, meat, baked goods, and plenty of gossip filled the air with sounds and smells. Nothing interesting enough to buy. What was interesting happened to be the local stream. It rushed over its rocks and cascaded in white crests underneath the bridge as brown as tea. The sounds were not its typical trickle on a calm day. No, it jabbered quickly with anger. Angry, swelling, irate thrashing transformed the stream into a river, Who knew that a constant drizzle could swell a small stream into a river? I walked back to my host blowing hot air into my mustache to keep SOMETHING warm. I thought, at the time, that I would like a cup of tea.