River Morning

I walked along a river lined with alder, oak, maple, black cottonwood, Doug fir and cedar. I was astonished by the variety of trees in this riparian area. I passed a couple people sitting in vehicles, staring at the river.

If you visit a place where people can park their vehicles and stare at the river without leaving the vehicle you will see interesting glassed-in faces in need of a river. So there they are, but they don’t manage to get out the vehicle. There’s probably a novella in that not-getting out.

These faces will belong to the owners of an astonishing variety of vehicles, from gleaming $50,000 trucks to duct-taped meth sedans. The river appeals to many people and I suppose there are many different needs for it. I recently discovered a new one for myself.

It was early morning and the river named for a vanished Native American tribe ran a murky green. All manner of birds flitted across my path. I heard geese honking in the distance and a woodpecker pecking nearby. These sounds infiltrated me and purged other, less desirable ones of injurious human construct.

I saw a man wearing an orange jacket standing in a field. What on earth was he doing there? I couldn’t imagine a reason at this hour. He stood motionless for five minutes. I then surmised he was homeless and camping out along the river. I turned my head and a saw a blue heron hunting in a flooded pasture. Orange man, blue heron, not more than a hundred yards away from each other. I kept walking and watching, waiting for either to move. It was almost a showdown between them and I put my money on the heron.

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