PM 1301204
The river flows past
the front of the property and I
realize every morning that it hurts
my eyes to look at it too long. This
never stops me from running down to
the beach to look at it every morning.
I become mesmerized by it's flow and
and I want to be able to even hear one
story it has to tell of its' journey from
way up in Brasil all the way down
to the River Plate estuary where it ejaculates
into the Atlantic.
Stories of drug dealers, pirates,
murder, rape, arson, drowning
and suicides.
Or the baptisms, family picnics or
the guy just sitting on the bench
watching as part of the entire
world flows by in front of his face.
One piece of driftwood could
cast a shadow over all the writings
of mankind in every language if it
only had the ability to divulge it's
secrets and it's itinerary.
The slop dumped into it at every turn
of the river, or how many fisherman's
toes it counted as it passed thousands of
pairs of feet dangling off of countless
docks.
How many stones have been
skipped across it's surface and now lie at the bottom in the silt slowly
pushed along the bottom by the current.
Thousands of years may pass before
those stones reach the ocean
only if they are not picked up by a
young beachcomber,
who would deposit it in their bag
and the stone could be on a flight bound
for Amsterdam the next day.
I am fascinated by the river and I
am in awe of how it can keep it's
secrets for so long even when everything
is bared for all to see, day and night,
there are always eyes on the river
and we get more information at the
whim of the current but we are denied so
much that we could never possibly know
about.
Lone fragments of shells are scattered
along the beach, pink and white, very
hard to spot in the dirty white sand.
No vantage point, no matter how high
is enough to see into the dark heart
of the river and we must keep satisfied
by watching it from the shore and guessing
the possible motives of all that water
flowing in the same direction.
MCC
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