A mid-July trip down a lazy and low southern river. This is what summertime is meant to be. The air was humid, the water cool, the fishing terrible, and the company superb.
I think the heat was beginning to get to them.
I wrote this for a literary journal at my college a few years ago. Since it's about the same river I thought it would be appropriate to include it.
Powell Observations
The heron and the osprey are the only souls that pay me mind. They fly farther down the bank, until they grow tired and quickly retreat to their nests. To everything else I’m just part of the river. Like a log or some neglected item that got washed away. My orange plastic boat moves with the currents. Bobbing past rocks and rolling over eddies. On occasion a fish will match my speed, and I can watch it dart effortlessly through its clear cool world. As I navigate the shallows under the bridge the morning doves hardly flutter. They are more impressed with the heat than with my presence. I am part of the river, I can read its motions, and I can see its smallest details. The take out comes into view, and I start to become part of the real world again. I’ll be back, as soon as the next break comes. I’ll be back. As soon as I can.
