We don’t know what we’re doing & the raft seems impossibly light, far too flimsy to carry us. But when we push off from the riverbank, things go well enough. Soon the current catches us and we’re off, no paddling needed, the water quickening with each bend of the river. There are rapids to negotiate, the roar of the white water getting louder & louder. At last we come to the edge of a vast waterfall and plunge right over it into an even vaster sky, weightless, gliding, holding hands as we shout with joy indistinguishable from terror into the sudden silence.

Then the earth comes up to meet us & it seems we fall asleep. Time passes. Hours, certainly. Maybe days, months, years. 

When I wake, finally, on that stony shore, you & the raft are gone, though I can see your footprints leading into the water. I wait & I wait & you don’t come back. After a while I sit on the bank with my eyes closed, my head in my hands, wondering what I’ll do when night comes.

At last I open my eyes & can just see, far upriver, the place we came from. I get to my feet, & because it seems like the thing to do, I stand at the edge & wave. Then I turn downstream & walk on, picking my way through the rocks.