the water writhes
when the tadpoles emerge
a thousand bodies
blossoming in the muck
and only one will live
to grow eyes
to reach the shore and
see a thousand other
blossoms fiercely, briefly
We dance for as long and short as the time we have
Life is important.
For more stories of life, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.
We classify waterways by obstruction.
I am not speaking of size or speed or beginnings or ends.
I am thinking of the calculation of the value of water.
Where is this stream?
Who does it matter to?
What lives within it?
When I see clear water, not a branch in sight I think-
Ponds where salt or chemicals or temperature have stripped life.
Or streams whose speed is so swift and cold that all that would live within it are carried away, helpless.
It is the water with coated rocks, branches haphazardly fixed in murky pools that support the fragile chain of existence.
Life is not pretty.
It is a muddy burst of escaping minnows.
It is a rotting branch releasing itself back to the shoots below.
Death is always the base support of life
If you would like to follow more winding streams, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.