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May. Rain has been pounding the Adirondacks for several days, and supersaturated the mountains. Seasonal streams have awakened, runoff and percolation feed the flow, all that water finding it’s lowest level and charging the whole Schroon ecosystem. Some miles below the dam at the lake, the river picks up speed on gradients through boulder fields, now inundated and drowned under the flow. They are immovable, their resistance invisible but for the standing waves throughout the volume. A light mist hovers above the raging current. Standing this close, I can feel the vibration of it’s power, urging my blood pressure higher to match the atmosphere I’m in. Here is spring as allegory to life, the relentless wildness of youth, bursting to race ahead towards that age when you don’t. What I wouldn’t give to truly feel that voltage again, and know the trajectory of where I was headed, instead of treading, spent, looking back at where I’ve come. I stay awhile on the edge of the surge, enjoying the power of the season.
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