A Leaf on the River Wild

So there was this fella who had a basin in his kitchen where he kept his drinking water. Every day he would fight, then yield to the new sun, crawl into his threads and head to Swollen River. He would drop a few timber pales in and, in seconds, they'd be brim-full-o-water. He'd then walk zombie-like back to his cottage and empty the pales into the basin, kick off his boots, drink himself ill, and then strum his banjo until the next day.

One day he grew weary of easy water at Swollen River. He made one last trip to the river on the morn of April 1. On the walk home he chopped down the oak trees until the path behind him was rendered impassable from his direction. He promised never to return to the river of bloated hippos.

The fella, whose name we lawfully protect, found a new source of drinking water within meters of his cottage. The sign at the waters' head read "Greener Stream". It took twice as long to collect half as much water, but the setting was idyllic. Plus the berries on the bank bushes were plump and marvelous and free for the picking.

He continued to collect water from Greener Stream and enjoy the bank berries for a few months. It was toilsome, and the riverflies were ignorant of their peskiness, but the fella refrained from thinking that his switch in water sources was a folly. One day the bushes stopped producing berries. The next day, for no obvious reason, the stream became a dirt groove in the forest floor.

Thankfully, the fella had been drinking only moderately and had enough water to maintain him for a spell.

Just when his throat sprouted a cactus bud, an answer to his hydration predicament came in the form of a telegram under his front door. It read, "Pack your clothes and take the 4:00 horse to the 10:00 boat, all the way to the faraway land of the Havnots. While you are there, a member of our brood called Body will deliver to you daily decanters of water. Leave at once."

The fella heeded the call with mild trepidation. Sure enough, he had no unquenchable thirst for the entire duration of his stay in the land of the Havnots. Every day a container of water appeared on his doorstep. He remained in this land from mid-Winter to mid-Summer.

Via boat, horseback, and thin leather boots, he returned to his cottage with one decanter of drinking water saved from his journey home.

Days went by and with but a sip to spare, he learned of a new source of drinking water across state lines. It was in a metropolis. The water source was small, ranging from brook to creek, never earning "stream" status- even in the April showers. In comparison to Swollen Creek, it was 3 times the labor to collect a third of the water. Also, the water needed to be run through the coal before being deemed suitable for drinking- a tedious process. The challenge piqued the fella's interest. Due to the distance, he was required to leave his cottage for a home in the town.

After a year of sweat and blood droplets in his water vessels, something inside said it was time for change. The fella questioned the inner voice. "But I've acquired the taste of this new water. Why now? And to where will I go?" Feeling compelled, albeit a little befuddled and saddened, he left Broken Brook and Crooked Creek for a temporary spring a long walk away, where a few of his brothers dipped pale. It was sweet water.

Word got out that the fella was looking for a new water source, as the spring was to run dry come December. Some raised brows, knowing that it was a very dry season, with many of the rivers having dried up.

On a day when hope seemed to be losing air, a man stopped the fella on his hike to the spring. He was a veteran who settled along a great river a few months ago. He proceeded to tell the fella of his river's glory. Asked the name of the river by the fella, the man said, "It's called the Great Iron-knee River."
"Oh," responded the fella.
The man continued, "But some call it Swollen River."

The fella's heart at once trembled. Then danced. Then did an awkward combination of the two.

The veteran invited the fella to dip his pale and taste the water. Conceding, the fella cautiously walked toward the river he once loved and once hated. Arriving to its bank, the fella noticed that the river had grown even bigger than before. And more wild. There before him was more water available than even before. However, the river's velocity would likely make the collection of water more challenging.

The veteran finished his pitch, "And there is a quaint strawbale cottage that's been vacant for nearly 3 years. It lies a short distance from the river's great bend. Have a look."

The fella needn't ask for the exact location of the cottage, for he knew in his heart it was his old home.

Sometimes you can go back, he thought to himself.

Not aware of all its implications, the fella returned to his cottage and watering hole with a vigilant glee. Maybe there are new opportunities along the river, he wondered. Perhaps that's why I'm being led back.

Maybe it's not about the river at all.