Here the wind died down
to a mere breath, which barely kept his boat in motion; but he made no
attempt to row. As long as he moved at all, he was satisfied. He was
living the fulfilment of his dreams in exile, lounging in the stern in
the ancient clothes he had purchased, his feet stretched comfortably
before him in their broken shoes, one foot upon a thwart, the other
hanging overside so laxly that occasional ripples lapped the run-over
heel. From time to time he scanned shore and river for familiar points
of interest--some remembered snag that showed the tip of one gnarled
branch. Or he marked a newly fallen palmetto, already rotting in the
water, which must be added to that map of vast detail that he carried
in his head. But for the most part his broad black face was turned up
to the blue brilliance above him in unblinking contemplation; his keen
eyes, brilliant despite their sun-muddied whites, reveled in the
heights above him, swinging from horizon to horizon in the wake of an
orderly file of little bluebill ducks, winging their way across the
river, or brightening with interest at the rarer sight of a pair of
mallards or redheads, lifting with the soaring circles of the great
bald-headed eagle, or following the scattered squadron of heron--white
heron, blue heron, young and old, trailing, sunlit, brilliant patches,
clear even against the bright white and blue of the sky above them.
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