tromp by the river jan 1, 2015

Had I brought my camera, I could have taken pictures of the river at dusk. Grey weather, grey sky, and the river in myriad shades of wet slate, mud, glassy black reflections, tea-stained chunks of ice scudding past. Ice broken from farther upriver--downriver?--by the swirling currents. Gnashed ice drifts at a stately pace. Looks quiet but farther downriver--upriver?--the frozen puzzle-pieces smash, pile, heave, cram together. I stand in the bleached cattails and swamp grass. A black dog lopes past, ignoring me: a mere human. The next dog shoves its snout where dogs like to shove their snouts to say hello. I dig through my shoulder bag. No notebook, no camera. I find a Postes Canada receipt in my wallet. What kind of writer goes for a walk without paper? Even on New Year's Day. Always carry paper.