Yesterday at the river, there was no drama. No brilliant splash of red or purplepainted clouds. I stood on the bridge as the river below glided silently by, tugging steadily at a green buoy.
Tethered securely, it bobbed and swirled. I looked down on it, watching as it twisted and turned. Wondered what held it fast deep below the water’s surface. Watched, mesmerized, as it ruffled the placid silk of the river’s flow into whirling pools and eddies.
Few birds called yesterday. Far off a crow or two and later a few geese, sounding their echoing farewells. Once the rippling call of a kingfisher crazylaughed across the water, like a skipped stone. Mostly, though, it was a quiet time. A grey time. An in-between time.
Yesterday the fish sought flight. Again and again they flung their bodies, bursting from the river, quivering curls of gleaming scales, then splashed back from air to water. Silvered concentric circles rippled out to intersect, overlap, then bump invisibly against the shore. A gentle nudge from fish to air to water to land.
The river flowed. The buoy held. The fish jumped.
I stood still. I watched. I listened.
Eventually, the sun rose, cresting the horizon with no great fanfare, just a gentle, gradual lightening.
A new day began.