Pick up the pace, and open space between prattling voices,
bear tracks and twists of fresh horseshit. Turning upstream
with large rocks, and rocking stones to toggle the gurgling,
moaning, foaming river's voices.

Where it looks like I can cross, I find the mythological Ouranos
encounters a revolt by his progeny and is overthrown; the
astrological Uranus is regarded as quite the opposite—that which
rebels and overthrows the people who trekked the Ice Age
bridge for months or years through what it meant to walk
from here to there.

Heading home, I pass a man in a red down jacket who tells me,
"The river can be crossed by the bend, to the left." It felt as if I
had missed my turn, and it was
too late
to turn
back.