The river starts slowly, up in the lonely country, up above tree line, where it is little more than a trickle.  It looks like nothing at first; like a diffident, seasonal creek.  As the snow melts, the water runs downwards, curling, bending, sometimes pausing—yet never actually still.  It wanders first across the high alpine meadows and then through the brown stretches of plains.  It is on its own unpredictable path, gathering itself all the while, propelling itself downwards.  As other tributaries make their way over the stream becomes a small river, and together the water advances through the places that offer themselves up with the least resistance.  It has cut through layers of rock while gathering sediment and gaining strength in its momentum.  By the time it sweeps into the valley, gurgling past the curved walls of De Beque canyon, it is a steady, surging force.  The river, by then, has found its purpose, and it rushes, headlong, on its unerring course.

What I'm thinking/working on/writing about today.  

1 comment:

Marcella said...

Beautiful! Sort of has the beat of Ernest Hemingway (opening of _Farewell_) and the Western-ness of ... hmmm ... Steinbeck?