The pole finds a depth that eats a boot, then another boot, then the idea of wading.

“Closed,” you tell anyone who is a horse or a person. The ford is a liar in spate. Shalllows are a season, not a personality.

Col looks cheated of a sword-story, then interested, which is his second-best mood. Jennet, if she came, squeezes Hop’s shoulder.

South: Bram’s rope. Back south-but-less: the wounded cutwater, which is still the village’s true door.

You did not become a willow-story. Your knees are dry-ish. That is already a kind of badge.

A ford in spate is a rumor of last year. You mark it closed in your head the way Pernell marks a full pallet. Dry boots are a kind of pontage you pay to sense. The pole comes up dripping a brown fact.

You scratch FORD NO in the mud with the pole-tip, a waymark for the next fool, who might be you on a different morning.