Der Inn

The river Inn falls through this town. It is quick, almost surprisingly so. The flow is wide, the current strong. A chestnut dropped from a bridge is far downstream by time it slowly floats to the surface again. The banks have been walled, and the bed almost paved. Still the sharp beaked dippers, in tiny white shirt fronts, bob out of sight only to surface and shiver water off their backs. The water reflects the moods of the mountains. Its glacial opacity is green on cloudy days, powder blue on clear days after rain or snow, glazed sky blue after a week of sun. Tourists stand on the bridges and photograph the scarp of stone to the north, the pyramid peaks to the south. The river bends gently in the city, making a slow turn as if leaning against a loved one in a corner bench in one of the cafes. Buses, taxis, bicycles, walkers walk back and forth. The river does not mind if they do not notice the color today. Someday, they will.