Down the long road walks the traveler.
The early morning sun is just barely peering
through the trees upon the hills.
He walks along, following the road.
He walks along, following the river.

He walks in the mist of the cool night that has past.
It is a mist this man has been familiar with for many weeks.
It has become his friend over these many days,
as much a friend as a lone traveler can acquire.
There is no one out there on this road he travels.
He has no one to acquaint with but the trees and
the squirrels and the rabbits and this mist and
the river; the shimmering, glorious river.
He can’t even make much of its image out in this faint morning light,
but he knows it is there. He feels its life
flowing over the rocks and pebbles,
through the swamp grasses and over its fish, he knows that it is there.
He feels it breathing and going along its way.

There’s not much to this journey.
It is actually fairly simple in nature, but it is most invigorating at the same time.
This traveler has been walking along
the banks of this river for almost a month now.
Sometimes he would walk on the east bank.
Other days he’d find a rundown bridge
and carefully make his way to the west bank.
All the time he’d be taking in the power of his companion.

This river is, in his heart,
like a mother, sibling, teacher, lover.
It has been a major part of his life ever since his first memory.
He learned to swim in these waters.
He learned to fish, to make a living, to survive.
His life is in this river.

What has lead our traveler to this, seemingly aimless, walking?
Was it a spur of the moment thought?
Was this a journey planed out from beginning to end?

As this man ventures these miles and miles each day,
he seldom quells the fires of thought.
Pages and pages have been written when he does stop for some rest.
Even with there being little time of rest for him,
there have been numerous pages written. Each of these letter filled pages
has been cast into the waters of his mighty friend.


He does not wish to lose these thoughts
to the destructive nature of the river.
He goes about this process in hope of letting his words dissolve into the waters.
“My words will not go on lost to the current,
but shall be collected all the better by other travelers
that may choose the same path as I have.
In time my words shall be heard for the river is my voice,
and I am the voice of this river.
Together, these life giving waters and i, shall venture on to the oceans of the world.”
These are a few of the words written that were cast into the rapids a few days ago.

As this day goes on so do the thoughts.
Where does he plan to go?
Will he just find the end waters and turn back?
What is his real reasoning for following the river?

The road from here seems to grow wilder,
even wilder than it already seems to have grown.
The man takes out his machete to hack his way
through green thorny limbs, and tall grasses.
As few more strenuous paces forward and a smile morphs into his face.
As the sun starts its descent into the passing of the afternoon
its light illuminates a rope bridge across the river.
This delights the spirit of the traveler greatly.
He makes his way to the bridge,
looking at its frayed ropes spanning the river, a few missing planks.
He seems not to take care toward these imperfections.

This overlooking seals his fate,
for as he makes his way across the bridge the planks creak.
When he reaches the middle of the span, the weak ropes give
and the river takes him under.
He gets thrown in the rapids and tumbled.
The river then hides his body, and all that can be seen is red.

This is the fate of the lone traveler.
He was taken by the river, but at peace he is now.
We can hope that he keeps on floating, keeps on drifting on,
keeps on finding his way along the path he chose.
Our friend, the man, the traveler, is one with the river at least.
He is now drifting towards the end waters and the sea.
Behind he has left his words in the waters.
Just listen closely and get drawn in.
I have sat there and listened to these words,.
I have spent many hours listening to the words
and songs of the wondrous waters.
The traveler has only died in body, but every person
who passes their life away on this river can say that it is part of them.
In turn the man is part of them all.
Life is never taken by the river; it is only gained of new aspect.
Let the waters flow through thy heart and the river shall set thou free.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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