The Window

These two trees clung to a bend in the river. A piece of ground that jutted out twenty feet or so into the current. Their peninsula created an eddy on the upstream side. A deep, swirling pool holding yellow foam and bits of trash until they could escape back into the flow. The tang of it floated up to our noses.

My brother and I passed it every day, walking from the office. The trees formed a little window onto the river, and I’d watch it shrink and grow as I approached, the scene inside sliding left to right with every step. Some days we’d stop and stand with the trees, touching their branches and leaves, watching the swirl below.

After a couple of years of daily walks, the window finally drew me in. I had to get the photograph. One Saturday in May I lugged the 5×7 down there and made it.

The next spring the river ran high. Historically high. We watched the spot come apart over a week of walks, the greedy river pulling away bucketfuls of dirt until only the roots held. Then one morning our trees were gone, swept fifty yards downstream, tumbling end over end.

We still walk past the spot. There’s nothing to stop for now. Just another part of the river.