Michael Stevens
Just off the river's edge among aspens and big tooth maples, clear water from last night's rain sits atop the silty mud and rotting leaves, a narrow pond just waiting to be murkied. Shadows and sun-sparkles vie for dominance as the shifting winds wiggle and wave the leaves. Pale-faced salamanders, firms egg whites with legs, meander through the maze of spongy algae and water-logged bark, peering at each other with distant, worried looks questioning the three solid shadows above. Three skinny boys perch a hair's breadth above the water on a wobbly fallen branch— young birds of prey fishing for salamanders with waxed paper cups.
