It doesn’t matter how hot or cold the weather is, we always go to the river. It draws us near and calls to us with the gentle lapping of water against rocks, and the softly creaking boats tied to the piers. Its water is subject to the whims of the season: slate grey in the winter, muddy in the spring, blue tinged with green in summer, nearly black in fall. Across, we see the hills we sometimes climb. Looking north, we look up its length until a sharp bend hides where it comes from. To the south, it flows past memories of foundries, battles, swimming holes, docks, and mills.