A little story rising from the swampy scents of the western flood plain, between the Rock and the Mountains of where I live.
A dreamer before the rains
Out beyond the drudgery of life’s swelling swamp, of where we trudge ever closer to the fringe an open tree line and the mountains. The thick sticky goo to a life that’s not ours, weighs us heavy with its unrelenting mono colour and clag like texture to living. But here, the swamp now shallow, I can now cast much of the years of caked on liquid goo and start to walk. Step after step, as I shake the last of it from my feet to find dry and moist earth of many colours and textures beneath the forests sparse canopy. Longing for the foothills I press forward, taking in all that my senses can discover, explore, and participate with and about, learning the ways of each new land passed across.
In time, I have made it to the foothills, to find a small winding creek, a source to dart to and from in a zigzag traverse of the hills stretching up above as the sun transits overhead. As closer the mountains begin to rise upon their feet as I leave the small winding source, to come face to face with a torrent of cascading life, vertical dreams caught in liquid stories, a sheer jagged drop. Embracing a smooth slick world behind the water’s free flowing tales, decisions, to find another way around, or learn to fly upon a fleeting, crumbling surface, unsure from one foot or hand to the next. Well I’m here now, these cascading stories don’t seem so daunting, climbing free, hand over hand, foot over foot, up the rocky crag, sipping from time to time the fall’s liquid yarns, listening to passing whispered tales.
Here, the top, a ribbon of forest green clambers an ever rising mountainside, time to pause, time to rest and dream a little, for life is good by the edge of a mountain river alive with Spring’s melting snows. For it’ll soon be dark, and the sky of La Nuit will find presence above, a navigator and wayfarer’s dream, for many adventure, travels and stories dwell both above and beneath The Night. Transient and nomadic tales, never static, never still, well not for too long in any case, but to rest when needed on a moonless night at the fringe of the evergreens where the songs of waters live free and running.