The Face of the Mesquaki Woman

I enjoy looking up to the hills without any desire to climb them. Maybe I have enough experience to know that the landscape consists of never-ending highs and lows. For three months, I am living in the valley close to the river. This stream is not a waterway, for I never see any ships or even pleasure boats. Once in a while girls slide by with flushed faces, canoeing resolutely. Otherwise nothing goes over this water-no person, no vessel. The paved roads that lie along the water process an unbearable stream of automobiles. I am thinking: that's how it is now. In the morning, even before this stream gets going, I go for a walk on the tiled path that runs between river and street, the kind of hike that gives me about an hour of restlessness. There is so much to see and to ponder. In addition to the heavy automobiles that tear over the road, I hear ducks, geese, and birds. I am ashamed when I catch myself so preoccupied with thoughts that carry fragrances of memories. As I look at the landscape over the water, my view collides against its hills. They are bright green and contrast sharply against the azure of the sky. The air smells like sunlight. I suppose that the temperature, especially, gives me the feeling that it is good to decorate the day like this: the river, the freeway, the trees, the hills, the birds, and the sky. I learn to accept that I cannot manage to keep my mind only on the rhythm of my arms and legs.