On Familiar Ground –

3/22/19 a.m.
I walk this morning over the levee, watching orange sun come up through the woods. Brown water stirs on the flooded batture in the small breeze, and the air is cool; the sky clear and blue.

On the little sandy path down to the river, I take photos of all the growth that’s popped up since last time I was here – white sweet clover, lush and tall; the beggar’s ticks, heavy with white blossoms; the purple-flowered vetch tangled all around. Small bird tracks etch the powdery sand.

At the river, the water is still high, and a great blue heron is poised, feeding, then sails away. Much boat traffic is lined up – huge ships, and barges and tugs. The curved path I’ve taken in the past to the sand pit is flooded now. I stand for a while – take photos – sniff up the river-scented air – and think of you.

I wonder if you ever came here – stood at the edge of the swollen river and watched what was passing by. Maybe it wasn’t as busy in your days, but the river was surely chugging along – herons surely visited the shore, and pelicans might have followed boats. Maybe the sweet clover choked the path like it does now, and maybe you picked some. Maybe you brought along a brother or two. Maybe you all sat by the edge of the brown and busy water, and watched, and were quiet, and wondered about life – about where the river would go, and where it might take you someday.

Every time I’m here, I feel you. I imagine you and my dad and all the kids jostling and joking and daring each other to step in. But I’m pretty sure you would have been careful. The adults told so many stories of the river’s dangerous currents – of how even a cow or a tree could get swept up so fast, and swirled away. Our family elders still do that now.

I take more photos of the water and sand and sky, as if I could capture it all. As if I could capture you. I walk home with a bundle of sweet clover, and some ripe loquats from the nearby trees, and some sand in my shoes, and feel you all around.