the sound of the river

As we pulled past the gate, I reached for my bag and grabbed my book. I tried to read on the way home; I needed to, even. But, I couldn't resist looking out the window as country gave way to city. Two bliss-filled days of sun and moon and mountain air. Campfires, cousins, and late night laughter. Sunshine streaming through quaking aspen. Pastures of sagebrush and a raging, winding river.

Our sleeping bags in front of the fireplace, last night cousin K and I talked of The Big City and the smaller one below us and where in life we've landed. The other conversations dimmed in the background. Accompanied by a snoring brother just above, our words became softer and more separated, and sleep summoned. One after the other we drifted off as glowing embers drew the last bits of shadow from the room. The only sound left was the rushing of the river.

Tonight, down in the valley, I rocked in the hammock while the sun sank below the Oquirrh Mountains to the west. My book folded across my lap, I let it remain, not wanting to renounce the day. A breeze blew through the branches above me and the faint smell of campfire danced past my nose and on into the back yard. I closed my eyes, and off in the distance, I heard the sound of the river.

{illustration by B. Posselli}