The River in September

I went to the river I love.

It smelled like the river of my dreams. It is the place I sang "buddy," the place I can't feel lonely. I went with the good people. I rode on their laughs. I pocketed their smiles. 

I watched them jump off all things and find ways to climb unclimbable dirt. I listened to them scream. I tasted the September air. It was messy and blurry and drunken and good. 

On the river in September you don't say goodbye. You just wave farewell until the next season or year or life when time brings you right back to the lips of its fresh water goodness. You find yourself thankful because today you loved every inch of the water and the water loved you back.