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Walking along the American River I came upon a tiny cove. I sat on some boulders near where the cove and the river met. In front of me the main body of the river rushed by at thousands of gallons a minute. It formed standing waves and white caps. But in the cove the water drifted slowly upstream. The downstream rush rubbed against the upstream, meandering, spawning dozens of whirlpools. Some were as narrow as pencils. Others were as broad as watermelons. Some funneled down a hand span below the surface. Some were gentle depressions. Some were wide enough to hold three or four little ones inside. Some winked out in a moment. Others lingered.

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