I was sitting in the river yesterday after a run in Antelope Valley, icing my aching legs. I was considering the water rushing past from high in the mountain where it was locked in glaciers and snow. Rushing on down the valley to city below where it will be used and reused and eventually with some luck any of it will reach the ocean where it may travel in currents pulled by the moon to other parts of the world. And then return to the sky and fall again on mountain tops. This continuous journey is telling. Without the string of history and the existence of those who came before me, I like the river would not be here today.