First View of the River

If you walk up the hill, ducking beneath the hazelnut tree, its branches looped and willow-like, and you continue past the elderberry bush, the one with the bead-like berries that only the birds eat, you’ll find the part of the forest where the dirt is bare, where the ivy doesn’t grow, and you’ll continue on, amongst the cedars, their bark reddish-purple, the soil carpeted with their cones, and you’ll brush your hand over the felty leaves of the thimbleberry, and across the sword ferns, with their strange, rough seams, and you’ll follow the blackberry thicket to the two vine maples that frame the open air, and that is where you’ll find it—the first view of the river, one small section of it visible at the bottom of the hill, the current moving fast and textured between the grey-sanded banks, the reflection of the cottonwoods casting a yellow shadow against the water, the color of darkened sunlight catching lazily on the ripples.