The American River, Saturday, February 9, late afternoon. Steve’s on his bike, pedaling along, stopping every so often to photograph a phoebe or a nuthatch, mergansers running atop the water. I’m walking alongside. We stop and sit on a bank, watch a pair of mallards preening. Close our eyes. Inhale the scent of damp earth, warmed by winter sun. Sit until the shade hits, spills across the landscape. Head for home and a fresh-crab dinner, a bite of crusty bread. It is heaven.
