Months after the last rainfall, I stop at a recently raised cairn before balancing on a raft of stones surrounded by chilly voices. The god of this river flows downstream and upstream, swirling in the spiraling forms we've been, and will be as Uranus accepts his style of old age, "having finally attained a remarkable wholeness                                   and sense of resolution." Who would believe this, except it has age as a witness? With no more children to spawn the overcast sky is his shroud, stretched across a universe we are beginning to retrieve as the myth of ourselves.