No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he is not the same man.
This morning the river is gray. Like poured lead. Dark gray in the sluggish middle lighter on both ends of sight line. One sight line is to the east and one sight line is to the southwest. The reflected lightt must have something to do with the angle of the river. The way it bends this way and that. Its turning demands different light from the world. Different light from the sky. I understand the east light with the rising sun with its bounce light blue-ish with its gray sub tones but I don't understand why the west would be less gray. Less molten. Shaded more like a powder blue color that the unformed west sky distilled and placed upon on the unmoving water. Or maybe it is in the color cones of my own retina. Complex. Driven by speculation. Driven by loose ends.