River Otters

Blunt rain drops swept into the little peaked ends of my open-fingered gloves and wicked slowly into the layered edges of my collar. They dimpled the river with a steady fervor. It seemed they would not let up.

Out of all this liquid arose the otters, a family of four, eyes wet with wonderment, glidding along a smooth, invisible current. They were only a few feet from the boat. Chins held aloft in an aristocratic pose, they pivoted their erect heads in unison, propped up effortlessly above the water by buoyant, vertical, submerged, and impossibly still torsos.

Droplets of river accented and announced whiskers positively twitching with life and purpose. They pivoted my way, sharpened their already sharp little eyes, and plunged. They slid into and out of water and air, sepentine, pouring themselves up and down like slick, furry streams of a fountain. Forward, away, and along they went, all at once, all in motion, wending and weaving their way.

I watched them until they wrapped around and through a bend in the red willow edge. Sanguine, kinetic heart beats left gentle ripples sloshing in their wake, reverberating amongst the thin stalks, clinging to wet and branched memories of the morning.