There's a certain poetry that happens by a river in a mountain on a hot Saturday in June.
There's something in the low murmur of voices, of conversations that leave you feeling contented, even though you aren't part of them and you can't really hear what's being said.
There's something in the stillness of the water, in how one tiny fish making one tiny jump can send ripples that radiate the width of the river. Practically.
There's something in the slow swing of a hammock, something in the way your man-child's bare feet stick out over the edge.
There's something in the glint of copper in your daughter's hair as the evening sun hits it in just the perfect spot, something about the way her smile makes your heart swell, and you know she's going to be OK.
There's something in the memory of how you've done this dozens of times in this life, how you've gone from bags of towels, swimsuits, sunscreen, goggles, floaties, Goldfish, velcroed sandals, juice boxes, buckets and diggers, extra clothes to just a bucket of fried chicken, a few chairs, a couple of hammocks, and the quiet poetry of voices, river, birds.