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Show RTVER Osceola, when drifting south on the flood was like falling into the arms of spring. The budding cottonwoods glowed with such a fresh green that they glistened in the sun: the quality of light was still sharp and clear with the last traces of winter. There was not a breath of wind and the surface of the river was as smooth as a sheet of glass, unrippled by the slightest breeze or current. I'd never seen the river so smooth and quiet. The sun climbed over the ridge and into the brilliant blue sky as a bright orange ball, its direct light warm and rich. Borne along by the swift and invisible current, I spun down to the Chickasaw Bluffs where the river narrowed and flew past the finest scenery on the Southern river. The great bluffs rose up from the Mississippi like towers so ancient they'd overgrown with trees. A towboat came up river but failed to break the sheen of the surface or the spell of magic in the air. My boat swept along like a leaf. So close to the water, I could lean out over the gunwales and see the agitated motion of particles of sand in the muddy water or touch the great clots of phosphate foam that wandered with the current. Even the swirling rainbow colors of an oil slick radiated a deadly beauty. I was so close to the hulking tree stumps that filled the rising river, rolling along leisurely like basking whales, that I felt a kinship with them. The pace of the current and all that moved with it was no faster than a man could walk. The world moved so slowly-from mid-river in a wide place it hardly seemed like I was moving at all, the river was so vast and the boat was so small. It took hours to round a bend. One vista opened up as another disappeared. The motion was remarkable. The spring flood had swept away the snags and sawyers that littered the river during low water and now the wild river's motion was one continuous flow, unbroken, unopposed, constant. My boat moved as the -183- |