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May, Schroon River, Adirondacks, NY. At the river's edge, I am squeezed on to one of the big boulders turtling out of the current. After spring rains they are wet and dangerous, a tread slide away from the current racing by my feet. A fall would be six feet deep and six feet under. My heart races with respect when the river is like this. A look through my images will show more of the Schroon than any other river. I don't know why. If the river were to ask, I'd say I love it in the morning when a vapor shrouds you in a mystery. When thirst brings you low and you tire to a lazy pace. When autumn lights you on fire, and winter chisels your features. When you swell to the banks, with a power that is not really a roar, but a hiss, driving every other noise in my life away. There is the stillness of your deeps, the clarity of your shallows. You are beautiful in all your stages. But especially when you rise.
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