The water cycle
and numb glacier legs
Inspiration comes in funny forms. While on Maui I spent a lot of time walking and wading in the warm waves. Even there, it felt cold at first, but then my legs would grow accustomed to the feeling and it would warm. The feel on my skin reminded me of my childhood and fishing in the Deschutes River near the Olympia Brewery and the Tumwater golf course. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with TK.
This evening my thoughts went in a different path. I thought about how the water passing by my legs is like a constant flow of time, of experiences and how I appreciate each molecule of water as it passes, but I do not regret that it has gone by. I know there will be more molecules to strike my legs. Each one a new experience worth having.
And then I sat down to write that out as a poem - relating the river and flow of water to life and how we are here to experience the moments. Not to regret those that have gone by.
But then this came out.
The stream of the Deschutes is cold Rainier ice and snow melting flowing down clearer than the sky white crests mimicking its birth place. My sockless shoes are my roots They stand firm on slippery stones and pointy rocks that would pierce my skin and cause me to stumble My legs shine pale white in the clear water glowing like lightbulbs against the dark stone They are cold beyond pink beyond blue numbed by the pounding water that does not rest. My sleeveless arm reaches through the pounding rush and finds a tiny being. A million tiny stones are its shell. I unlatch it from its anchor, pull it free and clear of the water. I gaze at its marvelous structure. A stone mason of the stream. It is perfect protection from everything except me. I twist the end and pull the tiny orange periwinkle* out - exposing it to the world and I feel some pity for it. For being my victim. And soon, hopefully, to be a victim again. Then it succumbs to the fishing line pierced by my tiny hook and cast to the distant pool to sink and float under a white and red bobber. Rest and wait. Rest and wait. Legs even colder, number. Listen to the water rush. See the leaves shake in the wind. Rest and wait. Until. Caught not once, the little perriwinkle, but twice as a lurking stream creature spies it. smells it. strikes it and falls victim to my tiny hook inside the tiny orange creature. I pull and spin and smile. A fish. A trout. Comes to me through the water pulled effortlessly by the invisible thread. My hand wraps round the wriggling creature mouth gasping and pulling and I know it is too small for my supper too small for the law to be happy with me. I try, gently as I can, to remove the tiny hook without damage without scars and it takes time. The trout? I feel its fear though I don’t know that it has any. I know it is suffering. The wiggle stops. But I take my time. I want its jaw to be undamaged so that it might swim and eat and grow. I want it to be pristine despite the hook and I slowly work it out. Pull it free. Finally, I gently lower the fish. Its head upstream. I feel the water rush and ensure it flows over gills. I hold gently until I feel the wiggle, the life and let it go to swim back to its tiny pool. It’s belly, perhaps, a little happier. Its memory, I hope, is short.
*I remember calling them periwinkles. I don’t see any reference to them online by that name. They are really Caddisfly larvae. They make their protective shells with a combination of surrounding materials and silk. Since the ones we used were in a stream, the surrounding material was tiny gravel. More information here on Wikipedia. Caddisfly - Wikipedia
Okay Okay! So I was looking for a good picture and found an artist that put precious metals in with Caddisfly larvae. Wow. Bug bling is right! CABINET / Artist Project / Trichopterae (cabinetmagazine.org)