Marching orders

The robins are back, so weary from flying that they walk wherever they go
from Braided Creek
by Jim Harrison/Ted Kooser

Turkey vultures have returned. I caught a glimpse of a pair this afternoon climbing thermals over the woods coursing along the river. The sight of them is reassuring--they'll have a lot to do with a winter's worth of losses in woods and field.
Though the water continues to recede a little more each day there was still a hell of a lot of water to avoid. Each step was taken gingerly, logs were balanced upon, curses were uttered with each misstep until I realized....why am I avoiding being wet? What will happen if I step in, all the way in and up to my knees if I want?
Nothing happened. I got wet. That's it.
Though at this time of year the water hovers in the thick of the river at somewhere around 35 degrees, its edges are a somewhat more palatable temperature. There was a momentary chilly rush but my body quickly compensated and warmth returned. and an entirely new set of possibilities suddenly presented themselves. No longer having to worry about getting wet, the recently downed tree requiring investigation was accessible. A feather floating in the water was within reach. The perfect cottonwood branch, riddled with intricate wormholing, was no longer beyong my grasp. Actual and perceived impediments were gone the moment I invited the river into my boots.
In January, falling in the river proves terrifying--there is no reason for it to be so, but it is nonetheless. Every time I have slipped and gotten a bootful of icy water I am momentarily shocked, horrified, and angry. Yet within minutes I forget about being wet and enjoy the mistake--the line between warm and cold has been perforated and I am liberated from my fear. We should all approach the woods and rivers and fields with same abandon our dogs do--if there's something good to see in the distance, go. A pile of river slash separating you and the hawk bathing in the sun? Figure it out and get there. Spongy wetland between the calling blackbird and you? Hold your breath and get moving.
Our mothers aren't around to tell us not to get wet and besides, when did we listen anyway? We knew, even then, that the perils of wetness, coldness, buckthorns in the leg or bark in the eye were worth the joy of being unencumbered and unrestrained outside. So there ought to be nothing holding us back now.