by m.m. griffinI hear cackles from earlier generations and echoes of past conversations in the water’s thucks and bubbles. The voices are wet branches against the sky. I see images of vaguely familiar faces and distant places in the foamy water crashing over rocks and swirling in the river’s spiral. I want to wade in the shallow water and revel in the current’s resistance, but there is not enough time. I watch a man toss his rod into brown water. After three attempts, he catches a small fish. I try to remember something unseen and wonder how far the river flows. I want to stay and play for a while, but I must go.