Little Berg River

Its sunny, with the gentlest of breezes occasionally lifting the heavy heads of ripe grass. My dry boots pace uphill along a light tan path. Protea trees, their whorls of soft green leaves radiating from an abstract skeleton of rough bark, litter the hillside. Below me, towards which I will soon descend, is a river of pure fantasy. White smooth sandstone's form twisting culverts of exquisite finish. The taller grasses and small trees bank up over the gurgling waters and beckon me to them. The water, the wondrous water is cold and sweet. It washes the fine black dirt from all but the deepest pores of my sun tightened skin. I've tossed my pack on the exposed rocks above the channel, and now remove my boots, brushing the burrs from the fronts of my socks. The sun cannot bake here, and although I feel warm, I know that the instant splash of my body into the water will pull all heat from me, and leave me chilled and invigorated. It forces a moments hesitation, and a nervous indrawing of air as I crash into the pool. Suddenly its clear and rocky. Blue green water forces its way over the boulders below me, to which I drift. The surface above me is a startlingly clear and rippled window. I break the surface screaming and laughing. The world is a sharp blur of the most penetrating of greens and blues. I want to cry with joy and laugh tears of contentment.