The Waiting

It starts before the weather changes. Before the first day of warmth, it’s a little bit like being itchy, the want to be on the water. There is that rogue day in the middle of March. It’s 70°F/ 21°C, but the water is only 38°F/ 4°C. Entertaining the thought of being on the river enters the mind and pulls away on the drive to work. The river is high and sluggish, the trees still unbudded, reaching gray sticks to the sky. But the river speaks to my soul, like the blood in the veins. 

It is a watching game, a waiting game between the snow and ice, the sun and job, all duking it out until they align in May. The sun warms the eastern United States. The rain is next out with the time, the job, and the river. 

The river makes it up to 56°F/ 14°C. The turning feels slow and yet sudden; now the trees are tipped in pale greens the wind blowing whitecaps across the river’s surface. The heart watches, and the blood hums soon, soon. April spits out another snow day, and the itching gets worse. It crawls under the skin, un-wanting to wait, listening to the birdsong, watching the hills slowly green. Until the view on the drive to work reveals the river, flat, smooth, and reflecting sky blue, over mud. The days turn straight to summer, skipping over spring as if there were no need of warm days and cool nights. At last, it’s time. I look down at my toes on the river’s edge.