Remembering

I read this on the bus and it made me a little homesick, thinking of the Willow River falls.

From John Steinbeck's East of Eden:

I remember the five-fingered ferns growing under little waterfalls, bobbing their green fingers as the droplets struck them.  And I remember the smells of the hills, wild azalea and a very distant skunk and the sweet cloy of lupin and horse sweat on harness.  I remember the sweeping lovely dance of high buzzards against the sky and Tom looking long up at them, but I can't remember that he ever said anything about them.  I remember holding the bright of a line while Tom drove pegs and braided a splice.  I remember the smell of crushed ferns in the creel and the delicate sweet odor of fresh damp rainbow trout lying so prettily on the green bed.  And finally I can remember coming back to the rig and pouring rolled barley into the leather feedbag and buckling it over the horse's head behind the ears.  And I have no sound of his voice or words in my ear; he is dark and silent and hugely warm in my memory.