Whose voice is that calling me, hauntingly, from the other side of the river? Faint but familiar, someone I know, but can't remember. Words muffled by the early morning mist also amplified by the slick-flat surface of the muddy river with its muddy bottom and steep muddy bank.
The slippery bank we once used as a slide into that slow cool water, despite warnings of the danger, just as dangerous, they said, as a snake or piece of broken glass in the high grass in the field next to it. Who's voice is it, pleading and cajoling, enticing me to join them on the other side? A child, a young mother, a lover, an old man? I sense a hand reaching out, palm up and open, hoping someone's will take it and be guided through the mist to the other side. Then the voice fades and the hand recedes, was it a voice or just a breeze blowing leaves down the slick-flat surface of the street?