I think I've posted this on DK before, ran into it recently as I realized to my regret that the Cicada Brood II tide had not reached my shores. I'm always grateful for the comments and support from DK for my writing, and I hope you'll indulge me this repost...
Potomac Damselfly
I paddled upstream as the sun rose behind me, bright red-orange, hazed by the dawn mists that flowed low towards me with the river, nestled into the valley's grey-green forests. I found my path through a zen garden of old, river-worn rocks, bonsai trees and bushes growing from cracks in the stone, in shallow lees of sand and pebbles. The river strained taut through gaps in the rocks, furling whorls and standing waves, a clear intensity that sheened purity, clarity, a breath-sound-smell of a timeless morning. The dawn light, the mist, and the still of the river instilled in me a quiet awe, a sense of how long the river had flown this way, how slowly these rocks had been smoothed, the taut gnarled lushness of plants and low swept-back trees that had endured flood and drought, storm and ice, seeds that had rooted in gravel pockets and rock lees, unfurled within a wild river.