Middle and End

There is a river in my head and no matter how hard I try to get it out, it remains. It isn't a wide river, nor a very deep river, but a river is a river and they don't belong in heads.

Next to the river is a rust fence made of barbed wire and splintery logs. And a tree. I think the tree is dead because it droops into the water but it doesn't try to get out.

I cannot for the life of me imagine what a river, a fence and a dead tree are doing in my head. But there they are, picturesque as ever before, waiting for a photgrapher from 1965 to take a photo.

They are very patient models and for that I must give them credit.