The high banks reminded her of the bluffs of her Des Moines, though these ridges lay like layers of dark molasses poured across flat cakes. Higher on the north side, the ridges were dusted partway down with snow. Hunt's party stood on crusty mud. A pair of geese honked downriver, then settled in lichen-covered rocks within sight of the stream. Ice like strings of pale beads nestled into the edges of blue-grey water that looked as smooth as a lake.
from A Name of Her Own by Jane Kirkpatrick