At the river’s edge. After a May afternoon of tempestuous squalls, the sun sets, leaving a blaze behind the forest. The wind was gone, and a lone river cot swung idly on its mooring line, surrounded by the reflected fire. There’s a peculiar form of silence that envelopes the river after sunset. Most birds have gone quiet, except for mallards laughing raucously in the distance.
When the wind blows on the river, the surface of the water stretches thin. Now, with the wind gone, it turns viscous and languid. Nervous water striders zig-zag across the water’s tight skin, mindful of the trout that every twenty or thirty seconds, leap from the water into the air, in search of supper.