regarding my helpless estate

i

this river of labyrinthine grey matter passes through ages, stages, rages, sages. its swirling and twirling buffeted by boulders rounded by the relentless flow of foaming white wash.

this river never empties – yet its spring-fed source can feel like a hazy half-forgotten memory of all that’s been lost. i call out from the frothing fury. ears filled with the river’s rumbling burble like the low, long thunder of far-off sheet lightning.

ii

but i’m already in the storm. carving a path. i call out again. 

iii

we’re standing on the edge, toes gripping the rocky ridges. sussing out the scene. to the right: far forested shore. short distance of mere meters. to the left: in the periphery. pounding pools of whirling white. seven precious ducklings stand by, life jackets affixed for floating but kicks still needed to navigate the gnarliness of pretty channel. the edge of fear sharpens my focus, as the flock gathers. we dip gingerly into the seemingly still water, unaware of hidden currents cutting across our path. we come up against an impenetrable wall - the bounce back of water from the far shore pushing us towards the painful periphery. we are tantalizingly close yet swimming with all my gathered strength the flock remains at a standstill. fighting the flow, i just keep kicking.

iv

the cascading rainbow falls tumbles upon itself. droplets chasing after droplets in a continuous race with gravity. we have climbed steps upon steps – find footing. squeeze toes. push off. next foot. steps formed by nature’s revealing of roots, rocks, and ridges. the mysterious density of the forest holds within its interlocking branches centuries of untold secrets. unlocked by the quiet company of others attuned to the cutaway of twenty-one mile creek. it keeps us pointed north in pursuit of perspective, which pours forth in view of the craggy peaks and sloping, layered angles of the rockies. having traversed through the unknown, i dip my head in the jarringly refreshing water ‘twas not long ago snow.

v

i am heard. my son, let your river flow into the endless ocean of my grace. who is this? even the frothing fury obeys him!

vi

limestone walls leap long above us left and right. leaning into the horizon, they cast a vertical view of history: ice ages and glaciers molding millimeter by millimeter, slabs of rock upon rock belying age like the rings of a tree trunk. the buoyancy of the tube - my legs and arms spilling lazily beyond its curved cradle - guides me without force. the tube obediently follows through the delightful wanderings of the elora gorge. worries are evaporated by the noonday sun. laughter lovingly like a lullaby to my soul. encircled in embrace, i drag my finger in the current as if reaching for the finger of god.

Written by Scott Moore
Illustrated by Landon Wideman

Inspired November 2020