Cascades flow nearby, its steady
rhythm lulling me into a trance. The smell of the woods is delicious. The rock
I sit on is multicolored with splashes of white and strips of green lichens
growing along crevasses. It has a life of its own. I notice more detail the
longer I sit here. Things that existed all along, but were somehow lost in the
busy scene in front of me. After a time I notice something struggling.
A large tulip leaf lies plastered
over a rock, drenched by the sporadic shower as whitecaps flow on either side
of the rock. The colorful leaf is hanging on for dear life. It looks like four
legs are draped out trying to hold on with not help in sight. This is the life
of a loner.
He will see things that can only be
imagined by most, and he may die in a spectacular way or with remarkable
circumstances. Flying solo, he has no backup when the day goes awry. Swept off
a rock, clinging for life. Yet still we all die someday. If only the loner’s
story could be told.
Beauty emanates as he grips the
rock, practically wrapped around it, perhaps in his finest hour based on the
richness of his color. But I don’t feel compelled to help him. This is the
final page of his story and he must write it. He could be an artist; someone who
hopefully has published his story along the way to help us to understand how he
got here. The backstory is always tucked away conveniently in the shadows.
The leaf has gone through its years
of attachment to its mother, clinging on for survival. As youths we hear the loud
directives, often times the only way they know to speak. Often for our own survival.
Family, teachers, friends all had their say. Friends chose to stay among those of
like interests, and some took cover to mature and present their gifts later, at
their appropriate time. We must cut loose to finish our course.
A solitary yellow butterfly darts
in and out of shadows, preferring sunlight. In the shade hides unsightly things
and those who choose to be hid. I watch the butterfly dance about but not
really wanting its place in the sun. I prefer to be the yellow or red leaf,
floating lazily downstream, enjoying those final days or hours to the fullest.
Seeing what others don’t see that dance about in the spotlight, among crowds,
wanting to be noticed. Along the way the leaves fit into their own groove. They
morph into what seems the fittest.
Passerby’s stop and look upon the fall
scene and smile, reflecting on their own lives as times past and memories wash
over them as the beauty unfolds. The leaf is part of the bigger picture, part of
a complete scene. Like an actor, one of dozens, with a bit part.
I am following a leaf now; it
survived a small set of rapids and is floating again, further downstream. Some get
collected in bunches around rocks and limbs shortly after leaving their tether.
Others make it through the crowds on to new adventures, in their golden hour. A
portion sinks to the bottom after being set free and turns quietly into the
foundation for their successors. Why is that? Shouldn’t we all enjoy the glory
of our golden hour?
Deep pools of black water pull in
what’s dancing overhead, its reflections capturing them peering in. The
butterflies and their friends. Their beauty is diffracted by the pools of
darkness, but the result is stunning. Black water deflects light, but dark
normally absorbs. During nighttime it pulls in all illumination and blankets its
hidden secrets in a cloak of protectiveness. During daytime it does the
opposite. The creek is a place of renewal and follows the course of life.
I see a city in the dark water’s
reflection. Our worlds merge here. Ripples of life run out from the center and
touch everything in their path. I see myself in a small corner of the city,
then spreading out as though a pebble was dropped in, sending my introspections
to all four corners.
A lower tone of light just settled
on me. A reminder that the twilight hour is approaching again. The leaf won’t
be there tomorrow after the overnight storms change the landscape. Its time is
now.
Another gentle shower of yellow leaves
is falling into the creek, beginning their final journey after spending a
lifetime connected to a branch for nourishment and survival.
A couple is watching the scene from
the old stone arched bridge.
Will they be inspired, take photos, tell others,
and encourage a love for nature in their kids? That’s quite a legacy for a
single leave floating along, painting the landscape with its unique art, and
dissolving into the bigger picture. Maybe someone is watching me that way from
a distance, from a bridge or otherwise.
Prelude to “The
Backstory”
Craig Elliott 2016
