When God smelled like alder

The homestead is nestled between two bends on a meandering tributary, a river under the influence of the tide and season — either teasing her bank with ankle-deep trickles for long hikes in wet boots as terrified crawfish scamper to a deeper hole — or, like today and many winter days when her bullying waters force the farmer’s cattle to high-ground as lakes of tadpoles form like clear tapioca under the watchful eye of wood stoves blowing alder smoke into the face of God as if God prefers alder.