“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”
Norman MacLean (“A River Runs Through It”)
I almost always visit this park in August. It’s not its prettiest time of year – that happens near the end of October when all of the trees turn red, yellow, and orange. And that’s when all the people come. To see nature on display. Actually, I do, too. Even without a camera, it’s worth the trip.
But there’s something enticing about August. The river isn’t roaring anymore (at least not like it does in the Spring) and the crowds are small. People are getting ready to send their kids back to school. So except for a few other old geezers I can have the place to myself.
So I come and watch the river flow. Just as it always does. There’s something comforting about that, I think. It starts somewhere and it ends somewhere. Predictably. And it has to follow a certain path. So long as it doesn’t overflow its banks, there’s only one path it can follow. There are no choices. No decisions to make. No votes to take. Just water and gravity.