We sat by the river. A log floated by.
My brother drew the Yosemite Falls, whose sound of cascading water is a small din compared to the wind in the pine and oak trees around us. People in small rafts talk loudly to each other down the river.
I kept watching the river. Small eddies hit the sides, and bounced off down the river.
The river reminded me that ALL is stream. All is flow. Nothing starts, persists, or ceases.
Two blackbirds flew over my head, and jays chirped in the tree to my right.
The oak trees shimmered brightly in the northward wind. The breeze stirred up the pollen in turn, and caused the guy walking on the trail across the river to sneeze.
A family of four found themselves flung forwards by the flow, into a low hanging branch. “Get on my side, and we’ll push off of it!” The mom exclaimed.
Looking back up to the falls, I noticed the sound was actually not coming straight at us, but ricocheting around the bottom of the Upper Falls, out at the opposite cliff face, and out to us.
The family of four got stuck once more, and then after getting untangled, carried on down the river.