To dry my wet hair I move to a sunny spot on the bank. I can hear my breath, the tear of my heart. Sleek ripples of waves roll over gnarled roots of giant cypress to separate around stacks of ancient stone, old soldiers guarding a sacred place. Looking up, clouds of words move closer. They say what I don’t want to know and then fade into antiquity. I am grateful for lodestone laps of water that pull back sad memories and choke them beneath the silt. At dusk I catch sight of a Tawny Owl eyeing me from behind a veil of Spanish moss. The seasonal birds have departed like dream-dead children. I stay with him until tokens of night appear, the fading sun sinking below the horizon, distant deer vanishing in the haze, until the river disappears in fog.
Bird life International