Willow blossoms coming down so slow they looked... paused. I was running. I wanted to stop to see just how fixed in the air they really were. The morning was like a scene from a videogame, those motes in the morning breeze. I went as far as the golf course and returned the exact same way.

We spent the rest of the morning failing to identify dogwood, learning to identify black locust instead. We pointed at turtles of ever decreasing size. The day grew hotter.

In a gorge, hawks wheeled, one after the other, and one swooped down but stopped half way, suspended, like the blossoms, like the floating bodies in M. John Harrison's Light.

In a separate gorge, the water has formed pools that are almost perfectly circular. The gradations of the land look deliberate, almost absurd. I couldn't believe it until I looked at the sign that said it was natural.

We passed a man playing wood-flute in the woods.

We passed more signs.

We passed a sign that said 'No Swimming' unless a lifeguard is on duty, but everyone was in the water, watching the water fall.