I came to the river in the morning to walk, to think. Across the field, still we with the moisture of a cold winter morning. Beyond the field’s edge and into the stands of alder, maples, and cottonwoods that line the old river.
In the summer the river is gentle enough to walk across. Her and I and the dog would play in its meandering current. Now, in the winter, the river has grown wide and strong again, gorged itself on the gifts of the sky. The banks and the gravel bars where we sat on the warmer months have all but vanished. The good throwing stick still rests behind the last alder that only we know is special.
The alders and maples in the forest up the hill have entered the deep slumber of winter. The winter reveals their other face. The sprawling forms of the branches intimate the essence of the world, more clearly beheld after the homecoming of the leaves.
Remembering during a cold walk this winter morning I contemplate the turning. Before long the river will swell with the blue blood of the mountains in the warmth of spring. The life will return to the emerald forest along the river banks. The summer too will come again in time. And we too will return to the waters of the old river, bound to the cycles of the great circle.