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Direction of Flow

Spring, Little River, Tennessee. Fresh water, clear and fast, moves through the steep hillsides, heading towards Metcalf Bottoms. It's spring in the Smokies, new leaves are still wrinkled green claws, and flowers adorn the branches and flesh out on hillsides. Here on the banks, the white noise of the river is the only audio I hear--no phones, no questions, no cacophony of machines. The change from the barreness of winter is dramatic. Small wonder that spring is connected with love. Life is new , the air is fragrant and fresh, color is intense after the long brown months. Spring makes the blood quicken, like the water rushing by me. I wish I could stop it here, hold it, make it last. But seasons are time, on the move like the river. Dogwood arms usher it ahead in the direction of flow. I take a deep breath, inhaling hope and anticipation, and head downstream.

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Direction of Flow
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©Ray Palmer no usage without written permissions
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2048x3059 / 6.0MB
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East/Northeast
Spring, Little River, Tennessee. Fresh water, clear and fast, moves through the steep hillsides, heading towards Metcalf Bottoms. It's spring in the Smokies, new leaves are still wrinkled green claws, and flowers adorn the branches and flesh out on hillsides. Here on the banks, the white noise of the river is the only audio I hear--no phones, no questions, no cacophony of machines. The change from the barreness of winter is dramatic. Small wonder that spring is connected with love. Life is new , the air is fragrant and fresh, color is intense after the long brown months. Spring makes the blood quicken, like the water rushing by me. I wish I could stop it here, hold it, make it last. But seasons are time, on the move like the river. Dogwood arms usher it ahead in the direction of flow. I take a deep breath, inhaling hope and anticipation, and head downstream.
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