A new breach in an old long-forsaken dam uncoils a distortion foisted upon the Oconee river. Another chord reemerges from a river-time rhythm––intelligible, but entirely too subtle for the loud and crude to notice. The river clears her throat, preparing new disclosures from an ancient song.
Flow still burdened, sure enough––distortions upriver and down, skinned basin slopes losing ground with every torrent from a thunderous sky––but river-time prevails over our impatience; the river knows. Every dam is a pretense to be overcome; every exploitative abuse of the river’s earthy frame heals beneath living bonds of an unstoppable green, but this––bittersweet for us––is the creative work of a time mercifully beyond our destructive own. Listen deeply, you’ll hear the river’s oddly familiar melody, perhaps for the very first time; observe diligently, you’ll catch glimmers of Oconee’s own flowing glory.
Below the breach on the river’s muddy edge, a storm-gray feather quivers gently in an imperceptible wind. Heron, that old river guardian, strolled here before I arrived. Considering his mythic lineage, I suspect he’s conspiring new beginnings for this beloved river.