(no subject)
Posting this here because I don't feel like saving it on my hard drive. Just a simple ramble about the desert and water.
The boy stands at the edge of the bank, looking out into the night. At his feet, a river flows. It is ten feet deep, maybe fifteen, nothing much, in comparison to the Amazon and the Nile, but it stretches wide and as far as he can see, in both directions, gleaming in the distant horizon, silver in the light of the moon and the stars. There are mountains in the distance, to stop the path of his eye, but the boy knows that if he follows the river around the mountain, it will stretch on even further, weaving and winding its way to the coast.
He has followed the riverbed; he knows what lies out there.
The river banks are deserted, for the first time that day. This is a desert; this is an underground river that flows only once every decade, maybe even less. And it has never been so deep or stretched from bank to bank like it did, waves pushing against the sand and eddies carrying carelessly tossed aside items up and down the river. This is a miracle, and all day there has been a constant stream of visitors: town founders, clinging to their children to make their way up the banks; children born in the desert and destined to die in the desert; and everyone in between. The people who are settled there, not the newcomers, the ones from towns near the coast, where water is nothing, or from towns where snow and rain fall constant for months. The people who visit are the ones who were born there, or had been there for so long, they have forgotten what it is like to stand at the edge of the ocean or to be stuck for days in a house because of the feet of snow surrounding them. The boy had been one of the dozens to visit during the day, but something compelled him to return.
He has never seen so much water in his life; it astounds him with the power it shows as it flows down the river.
The boy had often thought that there was nothing more beautiful than the desert night on a spring or fall night, with no moon to distract from the thousands of stars that glitter against the sky. But he is young and has not seen much; he knows that there must be something just as beautiful as that scene out there. And he thinks, as he stands at the edge of the river, looking down into the mirrored surface, casting a reflection of the sky back to him, that maybe he has found something to rival the night, and he wonders if the sea is just as beautiful in the night, or in the day, if the sun shines off the ocean surface to send thousand of sparkling prisms out into the sky.
Around him, the desert blooms, magnificent and alive. It will live for another few days before retreating back into the shells and hollows that are the desert. The same rain that given life to the river gives life to the desert plants and the boy can not help but be overwhelmed by the power that is water, by the force contained within something so seemingly harmless. There have been other storms that have caused the desert to bloom and breathe, like it is now, but somehow, it feels different this time around. He respects water; he always has. It comes from living in a desert, where water is life is everything.
The boy stands at the edge of the bank, looking out into the night. At his feet, a river flows. It is ten feet deep, maybe fifteen, nothing much, in comparison to the Amazon and the Nile, but it stretches wide and as far as he can see, in both directions, gleaming in the distant horizon, silver in the light of the moon and the stars. There are mountains in the distance, to stop the path of his eye, but the boy knows that if he follows the river around the mountain, it will stretch on even further, weaving and winding its way to the coast.
He has followed the riverbed; he knows what lies out there.
The river banks are deserted, for the first time that day. This is a desert; this is an underground river that flows only once every decade, maybe even less. And it has never been so deep or stretched from bank to bank like it did, waves pushing against the sand and eddies carrying carelessly tossed aside items up and down the river. This is a miracle, and all day there has been a constant stream of visitors: town founders, clinging to their children to make their way up the banks; children born in the desert and destined to die in the desert; and everyone in between. The people who are settled there, not the newcomers, the ones from towns near the coast, where water is nothing, or from towns where snow and rain fall constant for months. The people who visit are the ones who were born there, or had been there for so long, they have forgotten what it is like to stand at the edge of the ocean or to be stuck for days in a house because of the feet of snow surrounding them. The boy had been one of the dozens to visit during the day, but something compelled him to return.
He has never seen so much water in his life; it astounds him with the power it shows as it flows down the river.
The boy had often thought that there was nothing more beautiful than the desert night on a spring or fall night, with no moon to distract from the thousands of stars that glitter against the sky. But he is young and has not seen much; he knows that there must be something just as beautiful as that scene out there. And he thinks, as he stands at the edge of the river, looking down into the mirrored surface, casting a reflection of the sky back to him, that maybe he has found something to rival the night, and he wonders if the sea is just as beautiful in the night, or in the day, if the sun shines off the ocean surface to send thousand of sparkling prisms out into the sky.
Around him, the desert blooms, magnificent and alive. It will live for another few days before retreating back into the shells and hollows that are the desert. The same rain that given life to the river gives life to the desert plants and the boy can not help but be overwhelmed by the power that is water, by the force contained within something so seemingly harmless. There have been other storms that have caused the desert to bloom and breathe, like it is now, but somehow, it feels different this time around. He respects water; he always has. It comes from living in a desert, where water is life is everything.