He drove through river bottoms again, wooded ground that flooded in fall and covered fields in water stand; where cold fronts pushed waterfowl from north and birds came in vees and clouds that spiraled down to light upon flood waters of the field.
It was early in the fall, and the birds were not yet arrived. Some years, they never came, winter too warm and mild; or they came late, after season was closed, and it broke the hunter’s hearts to see them all, free and safe from calls and spreads, hunted only by the eagles that followed waves of flights.
Still, he thought how it all would be driving through the bottoms. He crossed the creek, idle and still and muddy in its bed, no rains to raise and flood it over. He looked on the oaks and trees in their stand and thought to stories of old—written and lived—and of the memories, he sought and found story and memory again.
Autumn heights, scarlets, ambers, orange and yellow-chartreuse’s cure and dull away; run of a doe; chase of a buck; movement of wind, inspire of light, all by river’s bend.