The River

Green.

Green in the water.

Green on the stones.

Green of the trees.

The color of the moment is green.

Under a grey sky, pregnant with rain, the green stands out.

It mixes in with the yellow clay, churning up in bright whirls. It glides in the water, swirling in great streaks. It plops and glops along with each step. It is fed by the river.

I'd been told that rivers are the greatest of artists. Here, it is evident. In the middle of Cambodia, framed by distant hills and stormy skies, the river paints.

Today, yesterday, and five days from now, the color of choice is green. Perhaps the river chooses blue or white or even reds and fright colors of flowers in other times of the year, under different skies. But today, the green of life and death stands out.

The river has been busy

Around it, the Earth sits parched, cracked and dusty red.

But the river looks after its land. It floods and sings and rises again, sweeping fingers of good thirst quenching water over the rocks and soil, letting little fingers of green things frow up in the cracks and dips, all shapes and sizes stark against the yellow earth.

It's a small river, delicate, and as great an artistic force it wields, the river is at risk. Here and there it is stopped up, mud piles up too high, cemented by green glops that have grown up from too much food in the water. Bright squares and scraps of plastic printed on distant machines cover other greens They drape a corner into the water. Some ha e been carried here by the river. Some will be plucked up by a tendril of water to be carried even further.

The water itself is murky. It's filled with the drift of the of the many miles the river has already run. The green takes advantage of the nutrients the water carries. It grows and smells. The water swirls with green tendrils and beaded strings. And in the right light, there are patches laying over the water, some scum that is distinctly not the river.

And yet, it moves on.

Children and grandparents from a nearby village come to bathe and swim. Buckets are brought down in the morning for the day's water. Roosters cluck their way over the rocks.

The children still laugh.

The ferryman still ferries.

The river still paints.