Water wraps around the center of the frame like a horseshoe. The surface settles into a deep blue green, without a single scrap of cloud reflected on it. Because it is midday seen from above, there is almost no shadow, and only the rim of the waterway stays sharp.
The bend holds two masses of green. The one on the left lies stretched out lengthwise, and the one on the right swells into a round shape and takes up the middle of the water.
Had this been a channel cut straight, rainwater would have passed through this frame in an instant. The curved waterway holds the flow in place, and the slowed water sets sand and leaves down on the bottom. That is also why the reed bed, spreading yellow, could line the water's edge so thickly.
The work of a wetland holding water and locking away carbon begins at bends like this. Construction that straightens a channel is done in a day, but once a bend is gone, it takes many seasons to come back.
Look again at the lower left corner. A single dirt track enters from outside the frame, cuts diagonally across the grass, then stops before it reaches the water. At the end of the track, a scrap of red roof barely hangs on at the edge.
It is the mark of a human hand that came this far and stopped. Because it stopped, this bend remains.
At the narrow neck where the two masses of green meet, the place where the water thins most, the next bend opens. Look at the photograph once more and you can grasp where the water narrows and where it spreads wide. The stream near your home can be seen with the same eye. The call to tear out the concrete will not sound like such a distant story.
