What makes a river feel like it’s watching you?

I’ve been guiding on the same stretch for twelve years, and sometimes—just when the light hits the water at a certain angle—I swear the river isn’t just flowing. It’s holding still, waiting. Not hostile, not kind. Just… present. Like it knows I’m here, and I’m not supposed to forget that. Have you ever had that? That quiet moment where the place feels less like a place and more like a witness?