The maple tree bows at the edge of the river, its trunk a perfect arch. Its roots are gnarled into the muddy, mossy bank, holding steady as the tree stoops to reassure the flowing water, “I am here.”
These two old friends have weathered many years side-by-side. Scorching heat, swelling rain, and brittle cold have aged them into fond familiarity.
The tree’s crooked fingers break the mirror surface of the water, peaceful ripples skimming and snaking in ribbons along the sinuous pull of the current. Leaves drop and become small, golden boats riding down the river’s course.