The Rivers themselves comprise their own cosmos. But the roads... the roads that deliver us at their doorsteps constitute an entirely different galaxy. Suspended between hope and reality, fear and ambition, freedom and eternal debt. Always we are en route. The River may be where dreams happen, but those dreams are born on the road.
"Legal" disclaimer: Not my photo
Some of the roads are familiar, like living timelines of the angler's life. He drives them day in, day out, and his subconscious soaks up the subtle slipping of time through his fingertips;
A tree turns it's shade
A branch drops it's leaves
The River once hidden
Squalls cloak her nakedness through winter
Only the committed will know her then
Return of The Robin
Calm before the storm
Leaves green again
A river reborn
Sorry. I was a little preoccupied in poetry class. Fish to catch and tail to chase and so on, and so forth.
The roads to rivers tell these stories quietly to those who will listen. And when there are no roads to rivers, still, we will find a way.
I am infatuated with the change of seasons and never more hopeful than when on the road to a river.