Clogged Highway of Peacock Feathers

The water of the Penobscot, on the upper west branch, wove flamboyant gowns full of color through the banners of rising heat. The sun near Throreau Island turned the river into a clogged highway of peacock feathers. The swarms of bugs allowed only a handful of jerky, a couple cigarettes and a can of Coors, if such can be considered measurements of time. We plunged back into the color, and the next few hours dissapeared into a finely rolled, mid-river-float, which turned conversation, bow and stern like the arms of a clock.