No Choice

A day much like today:

Most days the intemperate blow and gust of air through the hundred-foot firs becomes me standing by the river’s edge of my imagination, listening to the changing depth and breadth, the dredge of watery momentum through a stone-littered river bottom.

Someplace in the River Wind lives a great fish, tail rattling in the wind chimes. Without form it drags and tugs at the corners of the house and mouths the windows.

Rare days, I am beside an ocean in storm, a heavy, irregular tide sucking at my ears and spitting them out in false feeding, threatening to bow me, demanding I submit to its waves.

This moment, will I step out onto time-worn rock, into the richness built upon loamy layers of the recent pasts? Or will it be shifting sands, once parched now drenched by eternal tide?

It isn’t a choice; I join the elements in birth, death and resurrection.

©2010 by Sandra Davidson

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