River Bed.

Lying on the bed, on a river, listening to the water flowing below, a sound that overpowers everything else; voices, birds, a passing tractor.

At night it is a strange feeling, floating, or not floating, aware of the passage of time as gallons of water move past, from the dark and away into the dark again. In getting into or out of the bed, I have to step into the river. Is this island safe? It was dragged down river once in heavy rainfall in May.

In the sunshine, shadows play over the cloth, giving it movement which along with the wind and the running water is animated, while the bed stands solid (now, at least): the only thing not moving in this landscape. Even the tree trunks and branches sway, even if only a little.

The cloth was meant to give a domestic feeling to the bed: a four poster bed with curtains. They hang away from the bed, creating a space. But somehow the cloth has a life of its own. It fell into the river, catches shadows from trees and reflected water, and gives light in the darkness. Each matter: the bed, the river, and the cloth give something different, and I try to figure all this out as I lie on the bed, half asleep, dreaming of light, dark, water, solidity, shadows, reflections, the sound of running water….