There is a bend in the river where the water slows down and sweeps wide in a slow, swirling eddy, carving a wide, placid section between the green banks. The willows grow here, the weeping willows that reach out their rough and twisted boughs, sometimes out over the river. Their smaller branches hang in thick curtains and thin veils both, stirring in the breezes, calling in soft whispers to those who wish to seek solitude or privacy behind their leaves. In the spring, they are bright green, full of life, in the summer, their veils are at their most luscious. In the fall, the curtains turn to gold and yellow, and when the leaves are gone, only naked tendrils drape to the ground, sometimes covering with frost and icicles, freezing to the ground to form private ice palaces in the cold.