Although I haven’t seen the small river yet… the one tucked back in the Coast Range, I know the trees will come up to its edge, some will lean too close, arching over the water.
Ferns will dot its shores, trailing back to darker parts, creating patterns. A few will be browned, dead, while others thrive…layers.
Boulders will be strewn, mixed in with the current, channels and miniature rapids will have formed. The river will have many different types of currents.
There will be birds, an occasional chipmunk running into the brush, the distant echo of someone like me. The wind will flirt with these sounds. At times, the wind will drown out all.
The small river will have a voice, I already know this. Its truth is childish, shaped by how we have spoken to one another.
My voice will dart between the sound of current, ravens, hawks, the creaking of tall evergreens as their branches rub against each other. I would have told you how the baby hawks cry when their parents have gone to hunt for them. But you don’t need to hear this and you won’t.
I’ve gone missing, right in front of you.
For a short period of time, when I see the small river, I will no longer miss you, whoever you are, and I will no longer be alone.
The sun lingers now. The trail’s end is hot. I feel it upon my arms. I dangle my feet in the small river. For a moment, all I understand, tickles me.
Click on image to enlarge. The Trask River.
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