a peek at the flowing waters of the Rio Grande in winter
To hear the river now, one must sit silently upon its frozen surface, close your eyes, and feel the life below.
The sound is that of a faraway call, a reminder of golden warm days, rustling leaves and childhood laughter in the distance.
How deep is this layer of ice separating me from the flowing black waters below?
A quiet course secretly streaming beneath the ice, only a degree away from freezing; by motion alone does it remain fluid.
I hear the dormant river sing.
The wind blows and sends me turning. I walk upon the river, following her frozen course. Snow drifts about the mountain in a horizontal storm beneath a clear blue sky. I wrap my scarf a little tighter and head for home.