It’s amazing here. The way the light filters through the moss-laden branches that droop towards the swirling whitewater river. Birds chirp and play in the boughs of a mimosa tree that stretches over the water like a giant condor’s wing frozen in mid-soar.

The boulders in the water are timeless sentinels of eons gone by. But the rushing river grinds slowly, patiently away at them, knowing eventually it will be the victor in their millennias-old standoff.

Lichen and small fern sit atop the rock sentries, unconcerned about the struggle beneath them. In their lifespan it has no relevance. The little birds flit between the trees and rocks like flickering particles in the waning light.

As the sun fades behind the western ridge, the birds start to chirp and sing the day’s closing. The water, flowing endlessly, will continue even when I’m gone. All this will continue, whether I am here to see it or not.

It’s time to go now. I wish I could stay for hours, or the night, or maybe forever, and bask in the eternal solitude.