The River’s Gift

I wandered beside a quicksilver river, its waters tumbling between mossy stones and sunlit pools. The morning mist curled above the surface, softening every edge, so even the forest’s tall pines seemed to blur into the background. Each step followed the whispering flow, leading me deeper into the green hush of the valley. The river sang a thousand wordless stories, weaving through the woods like an old friend.

For hours I matched my steps to the current’s rhythm, pausing to watch dragonflies skim the surface. A sudden breeze sent ripples across the water, scattering sunlight in a mosaic of gold and blue. I found myself thinking of distant places, old sorrows carried away by the river’s endless movement. The banks grew lush with wildflowers and ferns, their colors bright and untamed.

Near a bend where the banks widened, I met a young fisherman mending his net with fingers nimble and patient. His small boat floated nearby, tethered with a frayed rope. He greeted me with a nod and gestured towards the river. “She gives enough for those who wait,” he said. I sat on a sun-warmed rock, content to watch him work. Time drifted slowly, measured by the gentle cascade and the flick of his hands.

We spoke little, letting the water’s voice fill the space between us. Sometimes the fisherman would point out a silver flash among the stones, or share a quiet chuckle at a leaping trout. He told me stories of seasons past – floods and droughts, wild rains, and gentle mornings such as this. His words were few but filled with reverence for the river’s mercy and its moods.

As the light shifted, he pulled from his basket a loaf of bread and a handful of small, bright fish. He offered them without expectation. Sharing that simple meal, I understood the river’s true gift. It was not just the fish or the clear water, but the sense of belonging to the quiet rhythm of the place – a flow older than memory, ever-renewing. The bread was dense but sweet, the fish smoky and fresh, and we ate surrounded by the chorus of birds and water.

We finished in companionable silence, the river murmuring on. The fisherman gathered his net, smiled, and vanished into the woods, leaving behind only the presence of patience and the memory of the river’s gentle generosity. Long after he left, I remained by the water’s edge, knowing I would carry the river’s serenity wherever my wandering took me. Evening crept in slowly, the river glimmering beneath the pale sky, as persistent and gentle as hope.