The river ran clear that morning in Silver Springs.
The sun stood straight overhead and the current moved like it had all day to kill.
Two kayaks came around the bend, the men paddling without rush.
The older one saw us first.
He laughed out loud and pointed straight at us with the whole paddle.
The younger one whipped his head around like something had bit him.
The kayak rolled hard. Water slopped in over the side.
He grabbed the paddle with one hand, the camera with the other, nearly dropped both, said a short ugly word under his breath, and still managed to click the shutter.
We sat in the branches and watched the whole circus.
The leaves were warm. The fish jumped. The heron lifted off slow, as if embarrassed for them.
The nice one was named Roger.
The dumb looking one called himself Chris.
