You’re alone on a river, deep in a valley with steep wooded sides. There are no people, no cars, no road signs. There’s just you, watching what your eyes choose to see.
They see a world transforming, an ecosystem shredding one seasonal skin for another. Shade by delicate shade this world grows greener, warmer, more hospitable. Branches sprout nests.
High overhead, the sky becomes display ground. Far below, just above a river bend flowing with smoothness, flies flutter on wings that could soar.
Broadening the sides of the river, clumps of marsh marigold bloom bright, butter yellow. Oak leaves are just emerging, tiny spear clusters furled within slowly opening buds.
A beaver stick floats by. Chiseled by teeth that chew aspens in the dark, the branch has been plundered of soft green bark. Somewhere a beaver grows fat, awaiting twilight.
The sun drops imperceptibly. Geese soar in the sky, but are fading with sunset calm.
Before long, night will come. Owls will hoot, but you won’t be here. You’re a visitor on this river, after all. Just an observer.
If you’re in your car or van, its your place to find a highway ,stow the days’ images in your memory and leave the river scenery in peace.
Today, there’s hope for spring in New York state.
Tom Turner
Victor