When I was a child, people always told me, especially in the summertime, how lucky I was to live in a house that had such an incredibly beautiful view of the river, wasn’t it though? I always agreed with them, because it was polite, though I could never see what they saw in a view… River, far down a hill, a view unclogged by the trees.
According to them, it was gorgeous. According to me, I saw it every day, and the Kentucky hills were as boring as the Ohio ones seemed to be.
When I truly enjoyed it, in my later years at the house I grew up in, was at night. It was a great ribbon of darkness, winding through the other dark, lit from an occasional reflection from the lights of a house or a tugboat. But more important than that, the basin that it had carved for itself between the hills of Kentucky and the hills of Ohio made an incredible echo chamber, magnifying sounds from miles away, twisting them and bringing them close to my ears all muffled and only very slightly beyond recognition.
white pebble 