I don’t want to write where this was because I don’t want the cops to roust them.
I’ll say it was on the North Branch of the river, in a spot where blue herons and kingfishers dance among the plastic bags and floating bottles. I’ll say it was where the water striders skim the surface so diligently their trails look like raindrops, and the sound of oars slicing the water overcomes road traffic and O’Hare-bound planes, but only for a bit.
I’ll say it was under a bridge since the story won’t work without it, but giving that much information frightens me, that tipping the world to their existence will get someone to call someone to call an alderman or cop and the laughing men and women and the community they built will be torn down and shoved out.
But they smile and laugh and wave and drink way too early on a Sunday, and they yell to us few on kayaks that they’re Americans. » Read the rest of this entry «
