“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. I’d like that.” When we make it to the bridge at the union of the two rivers, we stop and look across the border. “The river’ll be on the other side of you. You think you can manage?” “I guess we’ll see. If I can’t, I’ll be back here sooner than you think.” We sit at a metal bench along the rocky shore of the Mississippi. Crows pick through the trash in the rocks, picking up paper cups and candy wrappers. In the autumn, the marsh settles. The earth cools and the mucky underbelly of the wetland compresses. The paths harden, the leaves fall, the geese move south. The wetland becomes quiet and dark and restful. Squirrels store nuts, chickadees hide seeds, beavers insulate their dens with mud and leaves. I feel like this is where I belong, tethered to the marsh. I no longer float and flutter. I dance with the leaves. I sing with the birds. I sit under the willow and watch for the great old oak to tell me the seasons.
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