Water just flows, wherever the land will take it. Carves out a canyon. Leaves the dust behind. The flowers just bloom. Soon there’s a field of them in a meadow, wobbling in the summer winds. Squirrels scramble up and down trees. Little claws clutching into the bark. The sound of an old sailor carving his name into a block of wood. He dutifully occupies his remaining time. We people watch. We doom scroll. We stare into space. Wondering what she really meant to say. Our heart rates flutter around an un-concerning mean. We drink and feel the urge to void. I breathe. My lips are not blue. Everything is working rather well. But what are we doing? I don’t want to leave behind a hole, a jagged, scraped out rut. Scars in the flesh of the earth. I want to be the rushing river that catches the rousing sun just right. I want to be the caught glint of light that leans out over the edge of the glistening black rock. Everything goes white and then a slurry of orange and red. I can hear the raucous crash down below. I want to be the last moment just before the fall.
Water flowing around a rock in the middle of a moving stream always reminded me of surgery by the neat way it cleanly split the water.
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