My soft knees cushion on this green rug of moss, part of the rock ledge, itself attached to a boulder before time. I've been to the river. I bend over to the river to touch April water as it channels faster between two other boulders. I bend over with five or six ramps at a time, waving them through this stream, white fish with spring green tails. I rinse handful after handful of strong bulbs, remove Pocahontas County mud to wash downhill to silt. The lone sound is the flow, the echo of racing current over granite and sandstone, but I look up in the din laugh at the sight, a deep old growth of ramps, beyond reach, a carpet under poplar and ash. Hazardous ramps across a fast cold wall of water. Next to the brook that falls off Black Mountain a blue spruce uprooted to start a cave for another bear to guard ramps and fish trout. I return to camp brew coffee, fry bacon, stir in ramps for Friday breakfast, remember... I would know nothing of all this if not for Dad, Lester. Now, I only hear the wind approach, and the near headwaters of the Williams.