A waning sky hovered over a green meadow.

Deciduous trees dotted riverbanks. Water flowed

as if an artist applied a turquoise palette to the landscape.

My sister and I stepped out of the car.

She carried a bag of sandwiches, which we ate

seated at a picnic table.

Other cars rushed off for Old Faithful.

We had faith in this moment and place.

The river so flat, it did not appear to be moving from a distance.

We sat comfortably taking in the blue sky

and munching on our sandwiches.

I gave no measure to the swift current.

We walked near the shore watching mallards bounce

like teal buoys downstream, disappearing into the flow.

It was as if we were back in Michigan in the sixties,

watching a watermelon cool beside the artificial stream bed.

At the picnic table, we were preteens again,

enjoying a peace with only limited parental interference.

It had taken a long time to reach this place of peace again.

I had the urge to drop a large rock into the water

to break the stillness and to sound its depth. 

one thing I chose not to awaken.