The morning air is cool, but the rising sun tells another tale as I unpack my easel and place it on a flat boulder in the river.
It was the sound of moving water, yes, the water that drew me here, down from the mountain. It drew us near, the fisherman and I.
Dreamers of glory, each employed in our own purpose, hopeful of a successful gain, a fish for him, but for me, the light is destined to be my quarry.
While he tries his luck among the eddies, I swirl my brush in rainbow pools and coax the light down onto my canvas.
The morning passes in river time, no clock turns to make us hurry, no tempting screens, just churning water and chattering birds in rustling leaves to remind us, this is the time to heed.
For whatever is waiting, will wait some more, this river’s been flowing since earth’s first dawning, she’ll still be singing to the ocean when we are long in memory.
The air is warmer now, the fisherman reels in his line and parts with a farewell wave. He leaves with empty hands, but a fuller soul.
After a bit, I pack up my gear and step across the stones to shore. Hearing her murmuring lullaby, I pause before heading up the bank, then slowly turn to breathe deep and gaze long on this shimmering sanctuary.