Standing perfectly still, I watch the river flowing left to right, east to west across narrow northern Idaho—toward the Snake and Columbia rivers, toward the sea.
My ears bring in sounds of water rushing, laughing, splashing against rocks piled below.
Bare feet are tickled by prickly pine needles, and from warm, moist soil rises the sweet smell of grass freshened by morning’s hard rains. Tall sturdy pines tower over me like pillars, like columns in a colossal stone church.
Down by the river, trunks and branches of trees form a window. Looking through, I focus on a calm stretch of water, flat, smooth, and reflecting the far bank’s layers and shades of green.
Across the river, on the steep hillside, the city of trees slowly softens into a warm green blanket, inviting me to come over, to lie down, to rest.
Overhead in the deep blue ceiling, soft cotton clouds float west to east, opposite to the flow of the river. That contrary motion creates an optical illusion and I wonder: Are these clouds really moving above the earth, or are they hovering, still, while the earth spins below?
