[The River]

The best part of the river isn’t even in the water; it is above it, on top of the lichen-clothed boulder that juts out over the water. Sometimes I lay with my belly flat against the cool, damp rock, staring down over the edge at our reflection. The water is clear enough, and when its still I can flip my world upside down, and pretend my rock and I are the reflections. But I can only see this on a still day.
  It’s hard to find the perfect kind of day. Most days, a slight wind glides over the surface of the water. It brushes the river, distorting our reflection, and sweeps upward, over my back, into the boughs of the sycamore trees overhead. I like the sound the wind makes, how it sweeps my hair away from my face, and the way it dries the sweat beads forming on my shoulders and back. The wind is always warm, because I don’t go down to the river in the winter.
  Even when the wind moves faster, it is peaceful at the river. On days like that, the sycamores send showers of leaves down from their canopies. They rustle softly as their branches sway, and the leaves make ripples in the water. The sycamores protect me from the sun, and I welcome their silent company. I went down to the river once, when the trees were dormant and bare, and I felt vulnerable and afraid. I missed the animals too.
  I am the only human at the river, but I am not alone. If I lay still and silent enough upon my rock, I can trick a vulture into circling overhead. But when I do that he scares away the other birds, and I miss their music. Once I saw a doe and her fawn sipping quietly from the cool water, but they haven’t come back. I suppose it is because somebody started mowing hay from the field that borders the opposite side of the river.
  The best time to sit here is in the early morning. If I face east, I can see the sun rise slowly as the night fades away. The rays reach through the trees, touch my forehead and my cheeks, and chase away the fog rising over the water. When I look out over the rock now, I see more than our reflection; I see bass and sun perch moving slowly through the water, their bodies swaying from side to side as they glide forward with the current. Turtles with upturned noses and red-striped faces move upward from the deep and float on the surface of the water. They too are waiting to greet and be warmed by the rising sun. If I lay here long enough, I think, I will become a part of the river, a part of this rock; I will melt into the water with the turtles and the fish, with the leaves and the wind.