The undammed
14 January 2012 07:03 AM Categories: Writing prompts
Last winter there was a drought, and the winter before that, and for all I know, next winter will be dry as well, arid with clear, deceptive days. At night, the stars will be so crisp, bright, twinkling that I might be able to grab one, to feel its hotness in my dead palm. There is a beauty in dryness, a sparse beauty. The plants turn in on themselves. They conserve energy and let go of their weaker parts, drop leaf and kill off useless branch. Under the ground, their roots reach for hidden water, and the sunlight just soaks into them, burning away the frivolous.
Some people would divert this creek, would send the water rolling into a reservoir, pump it into a water tower, would mete it out over rainless nights and days on scraggly fields of wheat and soybeans. They would dip into it slowly, drink it drop by rationed drop. Or maybe they wouldn’t save it for themselves, but for others, the ones who depend on them, while inside things dry up and their organs rattle and rasp against each other.
I refuse to do it. At night, I walk to the damp edge where the dirt threatens to crumble under my feet. I kneel with cupped hands and wash the day off my face, listen to the power of it. I know the dangers, the way it might pull me under or drag me to a new place, a town where I am a stranger. I know that this rush may be temporary and that by letting it flow I am taking my chances for next year.
I am not afraid.
From an old Round Robin prompt, "Push it." The funny thing is that is hasn't rained here in quite a while. Last winter was much more water-filled. And do people really divert water from creeks? No matter. This was fun to write.
Image by Joe Plocki.
blog comments powered by Disqus