The Flow

The sky was dark and the moon was bright. The wind felt cold and wet. The saturated earth squished and shifted under my heavy steps. I moved toward the sound of moving water. I could hear it dribbling along, louder and louder as I approached. I found myself thinking ‘we really needed that rain.’

At the creek’s edge I stepped through long, flattened grasses and crouched looking at the passing current. Though louder here, the sound of the trickling water, constant and rushing, soothed me. There was something gentle about it. Unmovable, formidable, but gentle. I held my crouched position and relaxed my eyes. My breath fell out of me slowly. When there was no more, air came back into my lungs just as slowly. It kept coming. I felt them pull and grow, though I felt no strain as my lungs stretched. That good air seemed to clean me. I breathed like this for a while. One breath in, another out, my eyes still low seeing only a milky strand of moonlight blurred by the motion of the water. Another breath in, I held it. Another breath out. It went on like this for a while.

I opened my eyes expecting for light to come, but it was still dark and so l was still part of this thing that was happening. The stream rushed on by and I just watched and breathed. The breeze brushed by and sent chills up my spine, but my body didn’t shiver or whine. It was all fine. I drifted away again for a short while, entranced by the soft trickling.

A particularly strong wind or a small animal moving caused a rustling that brought me back. There I was on the riverbed, yes, it had grown. The stream from what had been a drainage creek, was now a full river bustling by, high on the banks through which it moved and on the momentum it kept within it too. Leaves, small branches, and other debris floated on by me. I watched them go. I watched them float to the edge and catch on the now bare roots, naked from the passing current. This same stripping force would soon pull the branches loose and on down the river. I drifted back into my breath and rolled along with the water. I was pulled under, scraping the bottom of the riverbed. I was dragged to the sides and clung there, waiting to be pulled back into the flow.

From the edge, I looked down stream and dreamed about what the water might find. Surely more roots to catch on and break loose. A bridge still quiet and empty in the night, the bank along a winding road where cars will soon be flowing too. A small, worn-down mill to move. A field, long dry from the changing of seasons. In my mind, I watched the water pool into that field. It would move clumped up dirt and muddy everything. It would bunch up and slowly climb the base of the corn stalks remaining from the harvest. It was a big field, plenty to fill. And the water kept coming. It came with its leaves and debris, its branches and its milky moonlight. It kept coming.

I imagined now the sun on the horizon. It’s just coming up. The edge of the earth is a dull yellow-orange. The moon is getting lower. The world is still dark. In that cover, small families of deer move about. They may have been the rustle that moved me or maybe it was the breeze. They move swiftly and softly. Barely seen, even less so heard. They are with the earth. They are with this stream. They follow it through the trees, around the empty bridges. They lurk in the woods opposite that winding road devoid of cars. And then, not so far off, the deer come to the field. Their hooves squish into the saturated earth as my feet had, they move even more gently now. The water keeps coming. Slow, steady, constant.

At the edge of the pooled liquid, now fully covering the cut stalks of corn long harvested and eaten, some even shared with these same deer, a mother bends down to drink from the pooled water. The sun moves a little higher. The yellow-orange deepens and brightens a bit. Two baby deer, following mother, bend down and drink as well. The moon is nearly gone now. The birds are singing. Along the water, the winding road is busy, cars are carrying people to their jobs, the bridges are being crossed. The roots are still catching debris, the birds sing, happy to see it.

Another rustling brings me back to where my body is seated at the side of the creek. I feel damp and cold. The sun is still higher now and the water is not the only sound. A road close by, the cars engines turn and grind, the wheel axels whine. In the light I can see a new type of debris in the creek. Old shirts soak up the muddy brown water and drift along. Potato chip bags litter the surface, oily and shining. Aluminum cans clank and get caught in the exposed roots as they pass, filling with water and sinking to the bottom to be retrieved when the creek dries again or never.

I rub my eyes. It’s time. There’s no more darkness or quiet left. I can feel my breath, quick and shallow in my chest. I’m even colder now. The seat of my pants soaked. The sun in the sky and the cars passing by tell me to go home. Onward. To work, the store, and so much more. I stand and take the short, squishy walk back to the road. A car passes on my left. I wave.

I get to my car, parked along the bridge, a small, shiny stream of oil from the car rolls over the edge and drips into the stream. I open the door and sit down in the driver’s seat. I don’t start the car. I just sit there, still watching the river, hoping the deer find their field. Another car goes by. It really is time. I turn back to the river one final time… goodbye.