Serial no 6. Can’t See the Forest from the Trees

It is beautiful out here. No, not beautiful. Majestic, breathtaking, perfect. It’s difficult finding words to describe it. The shades of browns, yellows, and pinks shift quickly into reds, oranges, and fuchsias. Mint green to the emerald sparkle of rushing wind through grass. A hazel motif created by my home.

But it’s the river that cuts through here that highlights the dazzling dangers. Building white caps and moving the dead until winter engulfs everything. The echoes of cracking ice crusts force mountain ranges to bow to its power.

I sometimes pine to touch its fury, erotically hot with power and subtly smooth with nightfall’s sleep. The river holds us together and threatens to rip us apart. I haven’t dared to touch it, not yet.

It moves continuously, even when the animals’ rest, it dances. Against rocks that can’t withstand its power forever and sandbanks that melt quickly into its rush. Wearing down everything around it, until everything becomes the river. Yet, here we still stand.

The water angers me some days, acting as if it’s the king of the forest. Not minding when storms threaten bolts of lightning from the sky. When winds strip us naked, and snow breaks us down, the power of the river never wavers. Never fears.

It swallows the largest of us without shuddering. Eating up the majestic golds of bark and keeping a tight hold on the reds of the leaves of the trees.

Large herds of elk move through our root balls just to visit the power of the river. Moose angrily remove their velvets onto our branches while drinking from the cooling water beds. Something I never get to experience.

The rabbits that bounce among us standing, never mind the needles we drop on them. They go straight to the authoritative river.

But all this power, the streaming of the water does nothing to save us when man sets fire to our souls.

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