A hazy day. Fourteen geese preen themselves along the river. An ancient willow leans over the tiny beach. A butterfly investigates the charred remains of campfires.
The river is coming in, coming out, swirling. The river runs fives shades of blue.
I sit on a memorial bench chained to a tree. The bench reads: “Sit, be still, and listen.”
One wonders if that’s possible in America anymore.
Years ago, I had a strange assignation here, in the willows at low tide. It’s worthy of a short story, but I doubt I’ll ever write it. I have come to realize that many interesting stories exist in my past that I will never write. Sometimes that’s the best thing to do. But of course, they are written in my mind, and that’s a novel way of publishing.
Not a single boat on the river, a boatless river.
I am alone…but now a black Bronco from the OJ era rumbles to a stop nearby. The two occupants have that definite look: river, fire and Fireball. They don’t get out of the vehicle. It appears they are napping, a Fireball morning nap.
I sit in the shade of several Sitka spruces. A gull flies by. I am thinking about possibilities, not with this river, but other rivers.
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