The river's really not that wide there, and not very deep either. If it weren't for the ice and cold, and those rags around their feet, George and his men could have walked across, though the current is swift. The house I grew up in, and the river just across the street.
View looks north.
To live by such a river is to be kept close to the movement of things. As it wears away silt and gravel from its banks, Pushing them into sandbars that will be islands in a far off year. Trees are forever tilting over the water, To fall and be washed away To be in the pile somewhere downstream. In college I had good teachers. They taught me the power and play of language and were passionate about their subject matter.