Water Starts In Wild Places

 My Godson, Reuben Sack, wrote this line: “Water Starts in Wild Places.” It got me thinking.

Is it true that every drop of water on earth has already been everywhere on earth a drop of water could ever be - above and below - every nook, each cranny - every crack and fissure, every undiscovered drip on the entire planet? Everywhere? Even the Gobi? A Cosmic Recycle? Somewhere I learned that.

I keep a sketch on my bulletin board of a whimsical little boy with his elbows on his knees next to a little stream. Its caption: everybody should be quiet near a little stream and listen. Except for the fact that, as a little boy, I always thought I was fat, it could have been me. 

I stand on a small bridge crossing the creek in front of our house, and I begin to listen. The rush of Spring melt charges down the mountains taking no prisoners as it thunders through its channel. Trout get fat. The banks roar no matter where you walk. Summer water is quieter, still deep enough to cushion the sound, strong enough to chop water over rocks. Now, you can walk the banks and, if you listen hard, if you keep the flow in your ears, the water will tell you what’s beneath it. Come Fall the water feels lazier, flowing along, meandering at leisure. There’s less, so you can hear it better. Fresh water flows hoof deep over the flats. The deer will drink here. Come winter with its deepest snowfall under the full moon, come then a great hush. Is it any wonder? Is it any wonder at all? The creek is right underneath me. I fancy I can feel it’s vibrations through the soles of my boots. Its banks are too deep in snow for me to walk, so I stand on the little bridge and listen to the trickle of distant water right there beneath my feet.

This is why I write. I write to hear the water.