It’s hard to beat a sunny day there at the river’s edge. Like the day we run upstream with inner tubes, scrambling over rocks and logs as the dog chases and barks. It’s all easy then – this living.
Terrific, people say when they come and see the mountain and water and sand and the small pebbly rocks and places the children play and the dogs run. We drink beer and unfold chairs and watch kids jump and splash and venture back and forth across the river until the sun casts long shadows.
These young days of summer we tire of nothing, not the heat or sun or swimming day after day. The water is clear and cold and if we pointed to the sky there is only blue, and herons or kingfishers, or maybe an eagle floating with wings spread wide.
All the while the garden grows. Beetles, black and shiny, struggle out of the soil. One day the garlic ripens. Then there are tiny carrots and potatoes and bright red tomatoes. Peaches turn soft and yellow.
Of course these things need to happen. Movement. The budding and growing and gone. The leaves to fall. Clouds then rain. The river to swell, and brown with mud. What I mean is, there’s no undoing this.
Still, it’s hard to beat a sunny day. There at the river’s edge. Running upstream and down, oblivious to what comes next. As if we might pause here, forever. Terrific, isn’t it, to think we’ll always find a way home? There to eat the ripened peaches. How we love to pull them from the branches, soft in our hands. To touch them to our tongues, sweet and succulent, tasting the juices quick and brief, before the fruit is gone.