Windows
Today, Mother and I spied a pile of rubble from the trail-head, blocking the path. When we got within twenty feet, our rock-slide became a stump. We assumed it fell from the adjacent rock-face of limestone. Approaching the woody mass as forensic detectives, we surveyed the scene. No foliage had been disturbed on the bordering bluff. I pushed the snow back from the base of the tree to reveal the depositor to be the Potomac, which was ten feet below us, innocent in its flat, glass-like visage. The river left the evidence in the form of flotsam. At some point recently, the raging water laid this two-ton stalk of wooden celery on the towpath, a driftwood monument to wilder days.
Another wonder revealed itself upon closer inspection. Tilting my head, I was able to see through. If we had stayed at a distance, never approaching, it would have been filed away mentally as a pile of rocks instead of a weathered window.