woolen caps and easter bonnets

The lavender skies over Tamarack Brook are cut short by the black outline of statuesque spruce and fir. I stand with my breath held, the silence reverberates in my ears, echoeing choruses of the songs of birds and insects long since quieted. The standard formation of geese, pushing their way through invisible currents, flying towards a horizon that moves as quickly as they do. The geese land loudly, obviously disinterested in the observer of this, some circus nowhere.
I imagine the Black River before we came. Before open fields and fall colours, when the river ran through black forests and whispered its sentiments to those who cared to listen. What if a sampling of the rivers sediments revealed not only fishhooks, pollen, and beer bottles, but also a manuscript of stories long since lost and forgetten in the river swells? Did the river hold its tongues when dams constrained its seeps and spills? Did the river rejoice in 1927?