River Walk, Mary Rymer [the little red hen read aloud .TXT] 📗

River Walk
by Mary Rymer

Below and above: movement. A fish pulls against crystalline current and nuzzles my calf mid-leg, hovering for a curious instant over glittering mica-speckled river rocks. I lift my joints and it quickly flits away, gone in an instant. The rocks’ smooth and rounded curves tumble my footsteps, their cobblestone path ancient and casual, belying the elegance of giants. I stumble forward shakily with humility and shame in the midst of this cradle of life, yet I continue to follow the river like a holy man in spite of myself, working my way among uneven depths and tiny rapids to the soft caress of still waters. Tiny, sprawling Water-skaters scatter with my imminent approach as I ripple the sacred surface of the cool, clear liquid and thunder onward.
Above the line of water the wind brushes cold against my skin, but below, in the silent, trembling stream, the cool has become my own so there is no difference in temperature between it and my liquid blood. I am amphibious, and I turn and twist at the waist, moving one way above water and standing still below, amazed at my dichotomy. I breathe air and move in the water.
There is the odor of wet things, of moss and soft wood and earthy leaves in the midst of their own life-cycle. The muddy, step-worn bank on my right is striated with silt and clay, split by a sudden tiny thrust of granite reaching into the water. The rock curves seductively into a miniature harbor where water gently spins and bubbles, cuddling tiny minnows that dart safely in its embrace.
Birds rustle leaves overhead and then again as they pick and scratch in the underbrush of the spreading hemlock branches that grace the rocky slope on my left. I cannot see them but I can hear them as they busily kick leaves and sticks about in search of bugs and then hop, hop away to the next spot of promise.
I stumble and my head nears the water’s surface as I catch my breath and myself. My arm slips briefly into the cool river as I reach for balance, but I do not touch the riverbed, and I slide my arm out again, exhaling, watching the water immediately fill the space as if I had never been a part of it. I look at my hand and forearm, amazed at how quickly the river took me into itself and how easily it gave me up. I envy the fluid adaptation.
Simultaneously, there is a quick pain near my little toe as my right foot twists on the smooth grade of the rounded rock beneath it, slides, and wedges between it and another one. I quickly jerk my leg up in pain as I regain my balance and there is a loud “thwok” that I can hear even above the water’s surface as the rock shifts and resettles into place. Silt rises and swirls with the flow of the river and, in the wake of all this disturbance, the sound of water gurgling ahead and around me becomes more salient, as if my senses had been clogged before, only needing to be released by the turn of stones in the river.


I continue my pilgrimage, urged onward by the chorus of rapids ahead. There is music to the tones and rhythms of the water as it rushes about the rocks and stones and falls within the natural sloping curve of land and sky, finally dipping with the drop of gravity. I know the song, I feel it, and for a moment I am pulled into the sound and rhythm of the river. The water has accepted me and it urges me forward. It pulls at my limbs and increases its tempo, singing for me to join it, to rush ahead with its joyous abandon. I think of Sirens and wonder at my sanity. I want to give in, to answer yes, and to lose myself. I want to shed my skin and flow in the rush of song ahead, and to find the dance of the water, a rhythm unstoppable both day and night.
I am frightened at the force of river’s call, and my hesitancy to answer is an almost palpable agony. Too late, I realize that this short wait is my undoing, my separation from the rush of Orpheus. I step out onto land and the water sheds itself of me, dropping sadly onto the rocky boulder of the bank onto which I have exited, staining the stone before me.
Then I tilt my head up and smile, now aware now of my own sound, the soft inhale and exhale of my breath as water gently drops in a staccato from my limbs; I feel the strong, even heartbeat in my chest as it rises and falls. I am wonderfully infused with the tempo of my singular rhythm and, by the river, I hear myself in contrast and harmony. I create a new refrain, adding to the song of the world, and it blends beautifully. Perhaps, I think, that is why I can walk and breathe in the water amphibiously. I may not sing the same song, but I am part of the music.

Publication Date: 08-25-2010

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