I greet the day with delight in the cool air of dawn. I am happily surprised to find a sliver of solitude along the San Antonio riverwalk.
Reflections on our first encounter in Yellowstone National Park, written on a bitter cold night in Ohio more than 15 years later.
Recalling a magical day in Yellowstone National Park that changed our lives and sent us on a journey that we are still traveling forty years later.
Rivers run to seas, and at times reverse course as the tidal pull of the moon pushes the sea back upstream.
The land is philosopher. It teaches through patient being that knowing is as futile and useless as believing. Things are, circumstances unfold and collapse, and reality persists.
The Rio Grande divides two lands, two tongues, two ways of seeing and believing. It occupies a borderland where the living, the dead, and the river’s watery sustenance follow a winding course to distant seas.
The currents of this river uncover millennia of remembrance. Their voices speak a wisdom we can only imagine. Their songs echo beyond the melodies of river, of songbirds, of hikers.
The remarkable spectacle of a summer sunset over the Mississippi River. (Photo by T.S. Bremer, 2006)