The Cold, Cold River.

Our local Cold River is a seasonal thing, raging during the Spring thaw and swelling preposterously during periods of heavy Autumn rain.

But mostly, it’s a small, rocky creek in a deep, narrow valley.  And morning finds it casting off its quilt of mists and vapours, consolidating itself into a stream once again after an unobserved night off:

The transit runs both ways, with the river’s exhalations moistening the sky as the sun concentrates on vaporizing the aqueous world below:

I have to admit to loving it here, at the risk of proving myself to be provincial.  It’s not the most magnificent example of anything, it’s just what I know.

And I like it.