3.20.16 From whence things come

     You have the moment, when you are walking or driving or riding, on your interminable way from one thing to another. 
     When there you see a place -maybe the afternoon sun shining upon a lone tree by an old brick building. Or possibly a curved street with so many identical homes and thick violet clouds overhead . 
     Whatever it is, sometimes we look. Other times, we stop, and pause. 
So it is with the river today , perfectly happy transversing its old old path, a causeway that becomes filled with the fallen rains, streaming down from the hills. Gathering these far flung waters up into one, and then sweeping them down to the sea.
     Always when I go by here , I wonder what it's like to be this river. To interact with countless tributaries and rivulets and brooks. To encounter all the scents and stories from so many lives and places, pulled into one powerful coursing river.

      So it is this way, as you stand by your friend the beach or the small outcropping of trees and underbrush down at the end of your street. Or I stand here, in the late afternoon, as a cold front barrels into town, banishing the clear blue skies in a minute.
     Soon enough, my ears are aching, and my teeth numb, as I pull my thin polar fleece close , and look upstream. From whence , always , more things come.