Every Creature Its Own Way

The bicycle ride by the old river conjured up old contorted ghosts, ghosts mumbling about the good old days, about the bad old days, and the messy stack of days in between. The water is higher than it has been in about thirty years, I heard someone say. Gnarled wooden hands peaked in the middle of the current like victims reaching for the sun, seized by surprise and frozen in time. The ripples ran through the surface and created Dali dunes that inspired decompression. Dust carried by the wailing wind got in my eyes and threatened to invade my mouth. I gripped my arms tried to warm myself from the chill.

The water had been gone a long time. Now that it’s back, I find it beautiful. Somehow I have learned in my old age, it takes an absence for me to appreciate the simpler things. I’m a slow learner.

I see how the fowl of the air rest their fond feathers on the trees aside the body of water. I imagine the tree enjoys it’s company, and likewise the bird. Or perhaps they both silently accept the other’s need for one another, if for a short time.

A caw then the furious flutter of raven wings beating the wind and disappearing. The tree remains. There is no argument about one wanting the other to remain.

Nature understands: Every creature its own way.

Understand me, ye nature’s creation. And don’t try and stop me.

∞