Sketch

I perch on a rock and watch Austin pastel the twisted trunk of a tree; he shades and contours and cocks his head, he flicks his fingers to add depth and details, to weigh down something light. Beneath him, the Tennessee river rages, gathering and converging and tumbling to placid stretches of turquoise water and rocky shores. Here it is strange to think of oceans, how the waves sweep sandy banks and die. A river is different kind of loud and travel: it carries rather than brings, passes rather than arrives. It says, do you see me? Would you like to come along?