Against the Current
The fish of the creek is a lone one. I can't help but reassure myself of that over and over and over again.
There have to be better, colder waters out there that inspire companionship onto my scaled salty cousins. They must feel so safe, so guarded, so seen in waves of glistening silver under the dimmed rays of white from the above. I could only hope to be so lucky.
But the creek doesn't have time for longing. It is changing once more with the season, and so shall I. Soon the cold will strike the rocks, and the snow will cover the moss. Soon the babies will grow and some will surely die for they were not meant for the winter. Soon I'll have to swim against the current for better waters with richer grounds.
But I'm tired.
Ever since my first winter, I've been tired. The star hides behind mantles of grey and the world looses its color. Everything is harder, sharper, harder. The world survives but keeps getting worse with each passing year. Boots kicking rocks and hands drinking the little water I have. Houses built on my nest and metal pipes painting green the blue hues of the water. And I make it worse. Because I have to swim against the current. I need to go up. I know it will be better that way. I know the water will be sweeter.
But it's so far away.
And what happens when I get there, anyway? What if I don't know when I've reached it? What If its all a fantasy? What if upstream lies only the end, and no new beginnings? What if there is no water on the other side? What If I am swimming toward my end?
The rain has started after weeks of dried grass and crickets. And I can't help but wonder how happy the others must be at sea, where the rain means nothing. Where there is no up or down. A blessed wide existence. Surely, it must be so. It has to be. They need not swim against the current. They ride it instead in complete bliss.
