The plants grew up from the dirt, the ancient oaks and seasonal weeds both. But the autumn breeze that blew off the river pushed them back and forth. More so the weeds, for the oaks had limbs of timber and great hands of the same that reached into the earth and grasped the soil. The oaks could brace themselves against the wind. And the weeds did just fine.
The sky was reflected in the river as always for they were once lovers. The sky was clouded, but not cloudy, and so the river was the same. Almost gray, almost cloudy.
It was an indecisive body. Part sea, part mountain brook. When the river drove north, the sea came with it. South, and the fresh silt settled from the hills. Today it flowed north. It has its reasons.
The breeze played tectonics with the river. It pushed itself against the current and mountain ranges sprang—little valleys and little hills, which quickly fell into the rest. They were shy and did not understand the rules of the game. Birth and death. They preferred death.
And behind the brackish river, the pines and rock-faced cliffs of the Palisades pushed up the sky. And in the evening, when the crimson sun would hide behind, the rock would become a silhouette of monstrous beauty before fading into the uncertain twilight. But now, it was just messy. Warm trees of early autumn bleeding brown with the evergreens. Fading into the far atmosphere. Clouded, not cloudy. Not hazy. Not foggy.
Not gray.