There is a place, there is always a place, to which you return, in mind or in spirit or in the movement of your own two feet, where you rest a moment and appreciate the quiet, the solitude. Just you. And the water.
The yellowed leaf from a cottonwood tree, its tip pointing south, the whole of it — blade and stem — riding the current between this stone and that, until it comes to rest beside you, between rock and moss.
Granddaughter.*
The water can hear you.
The water has memory.
The water trickles by. The sun warms your back. The wind on your neck, relief.
Oh I am thinking.**
Oh I am reminded.
How far you have come. How far you have yet to go.
*Granddaughter …. from Sing the Water Song.
**Oh I am thinking … from Nindinendam
