Chapter 20: White gold dripping from a celestial vat

 

Like white gold dripping from a celestial vat, the full moon was rising above the river’s eastern horizon, at which it spilled a bright strip of its reflection onto the placid water. Curt knew he was not in the river of his upbringing where the water rushed in boulder-strewn rapids through a coal rock canyon. This river was foreign, seemingly so much younger that it meandered through a tropical savanna; and more tranquil that it scarcely swayed the boat on the crest of a passing ripple.

The boat was anchored in the middle of the waterway, one kilometer to either shore. Curt rested on a hammock, exhausted by the travel from Germany.

Without walls of a canyon
There is absent an echo

Without a preoccupation
Its water flows in silence

In the dark of night
Moonlight is reflected

In your absence
Comforted by memories

In a rush, he reached for a pen and paper to write Claudia the poem he had contrived for the first postcard of the trip. Reaching to an empty floor under his hammock, Curt recalled his pack had been taken before boarding the canoe that ferried them to the wooden boat in the middle of the Gambia River.

 

Link to purchase Tujunga at www.calvarado.me

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