Well, I’ve found a photo, but few words tonight. There’s a vacuous place that grabs my words at the end of a day, like a whirlpool in a river, sucking them into the depths where they can’t be recovered. And I’m left mute, staring at the rushing stream washing it all away.
Still, I can tell you that C took this photo one day as we roamed a nature park and hunted out shadows, unusual patterns and other forms of beauty. And the small stream rushing beneath us sang soothing songs, mesmerized us with its flow. And one morning a brown mink peered out from beneath the bridge, freaked when he saw us and disappeared "a toute vitesse". The image of his startled little face still rides in my mind.
Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.
A stream is music and motion: smooth glides, fast, turbulent riffles and deep pools, each posing a special challenge.
As you sit on the hillside, or lie prone under the trees of the forest, or sprawl wet-legged by a mountain stream, the great door--that does not look like a door--opens.