Skipping Stones

I walked down by the river on a clear morning in October and I watched the yellow and orange leaves fall into the water.

I skipped rocks across the surface.

Those stones were like rocky vessels filled with wishes which always sank to the bottom.

While they skipped across the water they had life, they had momentum, but it was always short lived and I had to keep throwing them.

I sat still and the wind whipped my hair across my face. I was silent watching the sun strike the river.

I thought about the friends I lost and the ones I gained. I thought about the transient element of nature. The ebb and flow. Nothing stays the same. How far will a single molecule of water go?

I was still surrounded by flat rocks, but I lacked the ambition to skip them. Maybe I would come back when the leaves were orange yellow and red.

I kept seeing those stones as emmissaries.

Much like the ones sent in to my camp to spy on me and wait.

The analysis of a river: a river doesn't analyze.

Rivers always run down, sort of a lesson on the path of least resistance.


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