My dear friend.
Was the warm fishy smell of the river seeping out of the banks?
You know the smell, the one that all of us from around here mark as Summertime.
Summertime on the rivers of the Willamette Valley.
Cottonwood fiber and blackberry and a few fish heads that someone left behind.
All mixed up together as if a marketed blend for the privileged to whiff
River Summer in a package.
I bet the sky showed low clouds, lacking moisture, but blue peeked in over their edges.
And for several minutes the July sunshine hinted that it would visit, until finally it did.
Its rays penetrating through suddenly, at just the right moment.
And the water, first at your ankles. Cold, but July cold, not June cold. A cold that soon enough
Becomes soothing.
This, my friend, is what I want to believe.
This, my friend, is what my heart believes.

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