The River Keeps Moving
And like an ancient lava, the sun sprayed those muted golds and oranges across the slick surface of that slow-yawning river. And Timothy had upended the trash barrel, stood erect with his pipes, straight faced, motionless, like a Scottish Moai. And the tribes had begun to gather. And there was no talk of The Mohammad, of The Christ, of The Buddah, of the differences between them, between all of us. And there was talk of the beauty of it: the sun, the air, the water, the morning, the gathering. And the river kept moving, even despite the attention from them, from the sun.
Then, the water glow slowly paled, then vanished, along with the tribes, and the remnants of the night. Timothy was still playing as we walked upriver, away, and then toward home. We could still hear him at Café du Monde, Pirates Alley, and even now, as I write this. And it was good.
Mississippi River, Easter Sunday
New Orleans, LA
Words and photo By: Christopher Bryson