At the river he stepped onto the overhanging tree and stripped, a frog croaked and the fish gathered out of curiosity.
The clock in the village church chimed six as he entered the clear soft water.
Pools of fresh, eddies of warmth as he struck out upstream.
It felt good.
Nourishing after the stark heat of the day.
Butterflies swept over him, dragonflies settled and watched.
The water was calm, still, except where he passed.
The purple flowers.
The tree that touches.
The tree that floats.
The fallen grace.
He had eaten salmon earlier, it felt strange now to be in the river; the river was in him, he was in the river……
Where are they?
He turned; laying on his back he watched a plane far overhead away, and a cloud break up and disappear.
Where have they been?
Could it be that this section of the river has become too busy?
He swam back, first on his back, then not.
He saw the not-so-distant castle on the not-so-distant hill; no mountains here, folds.
And then they came.
Low, intense, playful.
They swooped into a turn, banking in a blur of vibrant orange and photo-blue.
We’re still here.
You too?
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