It's the time of year when the river races by in the countenance of doctored coffee, milk chocolate, and cream. In some places, the rapids roar which such ferocity a rafter would want to make peace with whatever deity they worshiped or ignored before facing a fate in a meat grinder of white water.
The House of Owls and Bats sits across the street from the river. There is a drain pipe in our drive, which slants down. This time of year, it is underwater. By virtue of that, we get a symphony not regularly heard. There is the grinding of river rocks, shaped by the force of runoff from jagged to smooth. Thousands of millions of years of geology played out for our listening pleasure as the leviathan grinds its teeth.