When people ask whether I get tired of my long drive to work and back I generally tell them No--the drive along the river provides a nice transition between home and the rest of the world. The bridge over our creek is an important part of that transition, the last piece of home before I venture forth or the last hurdle before I'm truly home, and because of this I like to pause a moment in my comings-and-goings, to open the windows and fill my ears with the sounds of running water and my eyes with the beauty around me. Sometimes I see birds or deer or a big fat groundhog but more often it's just trees and water. Today the big sycamore that leans across the creek seemed to glow in the early-morning fog, pointing toward the road that would take me to work, but I didn't want to go--I wanted to stay there all day and listen for the words under the water that Norman Maclean writes about in A River Runs through It. Nevertheless I obeyed the call of duty and drove away, carrying the sound of the creek and the glow of the sycamore with me like a benediction.
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