Several years in a row, we sought
a secluded swimming hole
Esconced by massive trees--
oaks, I think--
that must have brushed
settlers and Indians as saplings.
Cool and clear,
The Frio River ran
in dark catfish pools,
then shallowed
over boulders, stones, and pebbles
Lovely to the eye, soothing to the ear,
refreshing to skin.
After last year's storms swelled the river,
Which surely rushed like an angry wall,
carrying animals and branches and trash,
A massive tree toppled sideways
in the stream, roots up-tilted.
The concrete slab that had formed
a pleasant picnic surface
was flung as though
a giant child angered at his plaything,
hurling it into mid stream.
The careless water , 
circled and eddied and flowed another way.
The catfish found new hiding places in the roots
of the ancient felled tree.
That is the river, a combination of
storm aftermath
surrounded by
constant, clear waters unconcerned with
any debris.
Our choice? 
We can stand on the bank and bicker,
Decry the loss of our old swimming hole,
Or jump into the
strange, magical, new oasis,
and plumb its depths, rejoicing that still,
there is a place to swim
with new secrets beckoning below the surface.