Rivers.

Rivers in autumn.  Dark, mysterious, wreathed in color, heavy with the sweet scent of decay, with tannic swirls along their descending paths to the sea.

The Chickley in Charlemont:

…and farther up in Hawley, my former neighbor to the south:

The South River in my new home, Conway, sulking its way down valley on a dark day:

The Cold in Florida, shrouded in morning mist:

…And at their mouths, collecting them, shepherding them to the sea, the Connecticut, here looking down river into Hadley, where the college crew teams practice:

…and there looking up river into Montague, placid, swirling to a slow beat:

Water of life, rivers of time, inescapable and precious.

Long may they flow.