The Radovna pooled itself and waited for her ablution. Still. Clear. Shattering in its beauty and perfection.
Everything she was not.
Hers was more the unfettered rush, cutting gorges, collecting all manner of debris, and lugging along tumbled things that poked their heads out of the milky froth of living.
There were no still ponds in her being.
She looked at the icicles suspended from rocks above the freezing water. They were guarding it.
From beings that did not deserve to be cleansed.
Hom and Boršt rose above the gorge, patient and unbending. The beech trees on the slopes, stripped bare for winter, rustled as they waited to witness her own naked skin.
Her eyes lifted to the bridge, though she expected no one on it. The area was closed to tourists in the winter. Only the locals came, alone, to seek absolution in the Radovna’s icy bowl.