It has to be one of the slowest rivers in North America. I'm told South Dakota's James River drops somewhere near about five inches per mile, which is so inconsequential that there are places on the river where, when the water gets high, the flow actually reverses direction.
Plodding, lazy, indifferent, apathetic--call the Jim what you will, I happened on this little rapids yesterday at a moment when the sun was splashing everything with incandescence. I figured I had to get a couple of shots of this anomaly--the woeful, sleepy James making a splash with an icy crown.
And there's this too. When the waters recede ever so slightly, they leave art work in ice, stunning landscapes in the dirt and leaves.
Overhead thousands of geese checked the thermometer and determined their course south.
Even the Jim was beginning to look as if it was time to pull on a coat.
All of this Sabbath glory and a sweet speaking gig in Freeman, where the day closed in prairie reverie, the kind of Dakota sunset people elsewhere just can't believe.
This morning it's a memory for which I'm thankful because you could do a whole lot worse on the Sabbath than a quiet jaunt on the Jim.
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