I am nestled in a little spot between two conjoined trees, like they were saving the seat just for me. I am invisible here; the passing people keep their eyes ahead, taking no notice of me. I am both a part of, and removed from society. The water is shallow and clear here, safe from green bikes, wild college students, and overabundant fowl.
During this breezy exit of summer, the marker across from me reads that the water level is at about 17.50. The unit, however, escapes my understanding; Little Westham appears only about ten inches deep. Leaves have begun to litter the water, though they linger along rocks or traps in the creek flow. They appear in shades of brown or green, with a few spots of yellow. They have yet to assume the bright variety of fall.
Fortunately for the world, though perhaps unfortunately for me, I am surrounded by life. Moss grows to my side and at my feet. Weeds brush against the back of my arm, leaving me with an unsettled feeling. Somewhere below my legs a spider has disappeared. I think I may have sat on an anthill. I cannot see through the bright green of the trees, only to snippets of the road beside and behind me. A man walking past takes no notice of me, but his dog does.
Ants navigate deep roots like mazes beside me. Centipedes, however, forge their own path. As they march away they are constantly replenished by their brothers and cousins. Just like the water before me, they hardly seem to move while going great distances, always coming though you do not see the source. One day, you think, all the water will have flowed through. All the bugs will have marched past. The stream will dry up. But it never happens; nature is not transient like us.
Next to me, flowing waters have been caught by man-made stone boundaries. But the Earth has reclaimed these pools, populating them with water skaters and tiny striped fish. They always seem to be searching. Food, I suppose, but they’ll never stop the quest no matter how much they find. I wonder what they eat.
Nature seems to assume and endless character here. The creek flows in, the creek flows out. The bugs keep marching past. I know the bright green leaves will turn sickly shades of sunset, die, fall, and regrow next spring. Dead leaves decompose on the soil or water, returning what they borrowed to the land. The giant rock to my left will become smooth with the gentle touch of the water, but it will never move. And the fish keep searching for food.