Trailing in the River

An alder tree, bare now of leaves, leans out over the river--swift and deep in February. Only one branch trails in the current, like a swimmer dipping in a toe to test the water.

This makes me think of myself. I’m leaning toward the river, too. Each night I enter it when I dream. Each morning, awake, I trail one finger, trying to remember the dreams. Like the branch on the tree, my reach is shallow compared to the depth of the river.

Now the trailing branch catches a leaf. Sometimes I catch one luminous symbol rising toward the surface and turn it in my grateful, wondering hands. Maybe it wants to become a poem or an image in a story.