I can hear it leaving

~ The trout whisperer

Where the river departs the lake, all winter long the water flowed and when a fellow like me has spring fever worse than any other year I can recall, I needed some of that open water view, and so to it, I did go.
I liked knowing before I arrived, it would be what I saw many times this winter. I knew before I’d go there, it would be moving water. Gurgles would occur to my ear, if I listened close enough from the snowy bank. Truly I couldn’t wait.
I hobbled along a deer trail tucking under budded alders. Snow would slush below my boots and then there in front of me - a winter’s rut of deer tracks making their way. That helped my way be easier to hike as they must know as I did, what was up ahead. It hastened my step to be sure.
A billow floated, steam, sea smoke, mist, fog, what does one call it? And what’s the name of the air gap between the serene water’s surface and the wet lifting apparitions underside. And then where in the air does the mist go? It rises off the openness, hovering above with a top of open air, teased into the low part of gray sky by thermoclines of temperature and humidity that I press against like some sort of human barometer. It does me good to see it, and the trickling downstream. I can’t see, but I hear, oh I hear it, it’s a wondrous thing to me, especially today, when I lean into a spring not yet here. But it is open water I hear.