The flow is slow and unrelenting, churning here and calming there, the bubbling blop-blup-blop-blup-blop echoes in the canopy of barren soft woods bowed to see what happens below and protect with a parental carapace.
On early wintry days the noise is white with insistence and easily fades when ignored –if ignored, or a competing buzz crowds the air as if it were somehow opaque, gust conquers breeze, splash cancels gurgle, creak of a fragile limb countermands the flutter of resistant leaves.
Debris lines the opposite bank which turns toward the waters softly rounded mucky beach, leaves blackened and grayed, rotting against branches forming pools, glistening with the insistent wash of waveless waters.
Tasteless, musky scents swirl, catching new odors drawn up from the earth toward the sky of branches and returned to pass down the tunnel of turns and bends, hiding in pockets of sanctuary or escaping through sky-lights created by toppling winds from the previous winter. –This scene is created, not planned or constructed with consequence in mind, and even when traversed by bridges, brush cleared to make a scene or a view, or stocked with hatchery product, the waters, the banks, the bends and turns continue to create in a slow and unrelenting, churning here and calming there.