I can hear the sound of destruction, a large cracking as trees are
wrenched from the banks and pulled into the swollen river. I can watch
my little forest nymphs running along the sidewalk, hair spangled with
storm remnants, wet and shining in the green and gray around them. I can
pause at sidewalks made impassible from makeshift rivers and transient
waterfalls. Water has a way of claiming the season. Of claiming
everything, really: bridges and fields, skies, insects, me. I have lost
myself to this endless rainy season, traipsing through the woods every
evening, chasing impossibilities: forever and on and forever.Here they are barefooted and nimble, squishing through mud with abandon. Here are the ants seeking higher ground for their homes, holding little white eggs aloft. Here is a giant wolf spider drying itself off on a low part of the bridge. Minutes later that part is under water. The spider's inched just a bit higher.
Everything is washed out of hiding: toads and frogs and tiny pink worms. Everything is washed out of hiding: me. I have lost myself to escaping the four walls of my life, the trapped confines of my life. I have given myself to a world bursting at the seams.
The trees have burst into fragrant white blooms. The children are tired. Dark is falling fast and the fireflies are rising up and out. Let's go a little further, one says. Let's go home, says the other.
I want to say: Let's never ever go home. But the lightning is cracking and thunder is shaking everything. It's one long deep breath back. My chest is full-to-bursting with the long walk, a rattling that sounds like trees crashing down, rending the air into pieces. I'll let it out tomorrow when I have another chance at the wet, ruined world.
(Title comes from "Runaway" by The National.)
