morning on the river

Walking to the river this morning, alone and in the dark, was like stepping into some primordial past.  The stars blazing above Christ Church, only to be blotted out by the trees growing dense and dark on either side of the path.  And the river itself, rising out of a rolling mist that shrouded bank and distance in the mysterious grey of pre-morning light.

The puff of breath, the sting of frozen fingers, red with cold, as the sun rose over frost covered docks, and the white geese preened themselves on the ice-covered shore.  And in the fields of Christ Church meadow, the deer could be seen bounding between the lumbering cows, frost-covered in their crystallized pasture, as the spires of Oxford rose behind them, gleaming gold in the early morning light.  

And that, I suppose, is why students rise early from warm beds, and walk through deserted streets, weaving through trucks unloading merchandise on Cornmarket, to row in the dark on the river Isis.