Watching the river. Listening to the river. It’s icy cold body moving swiftly over smoothed rocks, jumping through gradients like a beating drum. The waters flee with the fear of being left behind. My imagination is awakened by the noisy chill and my consciousness is lulled into a daydream.
I get lost in the shadows on the banks, where do they lead and what is watching me from the other side. If I squint I can only see what the light dusts. A trunk anchored lunette to nature’s secret entrance. The River Watchers.
The Watchers sit strongly through the seasons and listen to the mighty river tell it’s story. They are historians, recording the floods and droughts that shape the land. They generously offer shelter for those adventurous souls who’s curiosity brings them to the waters edge. Their trunks painted into the bank, with a brush that’s lost it’s oil. Their leaves textured like dry roses, clicking in the wind they make a melody with the river. Creating nature’s greatest symphony that plays in a hiker’s silence.
The click of the shutter releases my daydream into the river and it rushes away. I am back on the rocky bank, into the moment I’d left behind, watching the river .