One could walk on. Turn left. Go up. But, for some reason, one looks right. A sight perhaps seen previously, yet coated with a fresh aura. A reflection of the sparkles playing on the river’s surface? A visible echo of the unreachable water depths? The river’s report about the earth’s message to the sun? Movements of the air independent of anything mentioned. Anything unmentioned. Of the imponderables. Makes one want to walk through the dream of the voice unheard. Only anticipated. Its unborn promises leaking through the crevices of today’s shadow.