120712 #copperhead Steady, percussive, the rain persists. Countless tiny explosions on the surface of what we've come to think of as our river; myriad idiophonic thumps on the bow and stern decks sing with such incomprehensible complexity as to seem like white noise to the unattuned. But we, we who have lived in this cut of water for days now, weeks, we hear a different song. We hear the soundtrack to the fog. We hear the naptime of the crawfish. We hear the surrender of the sky to the wet femininity of the land. Raspberry bushes glare out of the gray with audacious bursts of saturated color. We stop to select and eat. We leave some. It's just what you do. You leave some.