"The river's on fire," said my son. The river did seem to be on fire, if you were only looking at the river.

"No, the sky is," I told him. A reflection from above. He shrugged his shoulders.

He didn't ask why the sky was on fire, just bowed his over over the rowboat's side and continued looking for fish. Small, darting, the color of the river bed, the fish beneath the fire, the river beneath the fire.

My eyes toward the sky, waiting for the fire to come down.