We sit on the rocks by the river, the alder trees whippling, each leaf pulling in different directions. The water casts its own shadow, billowing like window blinds, and as the wind reaches us we can see its path, lit and flickering atop the water, constellations of cold, white sunlight darting across the green river. The water is deep, here in front of us, but we can hear the current just around the bend, moving around moss-covered stones. A small, grey songbird dives underwater in short bursts, swimming along the shoreline, floating like a duck or a goose. He perches on a stone, mid-river, and he bobs his head in some sort of dance, his long beak rising and falling, his tail fanned out, wide as a maple leaf. And at our side the sedge and bulrush grow, ankle height, tucked between stunted young willows, and the rock is warm beneath us, a balm to our goosebumped skin, still tacky with wind-dried water, and we watch these last moments unfold before the fir trees steal the light, before the river turns sap-dark, before there is no more flickering.