The River’s Awakening

The river had been silent for months, locked beneath thick sheets of ice. Each time I had passed it in winter, it had been a frozen landscape—motionless, hushed. But today, as I stepped onto the wooden footbridge, I heard something new. A murmur, faint but unmistakable.

Leaning over the railing, I saw thin cracks in the ice, water peeking through in restless movement. It wasn’t much, just small ripples and glistening trickles, but the river was waking.

A fisherman, standing nearby, noticed my fascination. “Every year, the same thing,” he mused, casting his line into the slow-moving current. “First, the ice groans. Then, little streams break free. Before you know it, the whole river is alive again.”

I listened to the distant creaks and soft splashes as the water fought its way back into motion. “It’s like it never really stopped,” I said.

The fisherman chuckled. “Nothing ever really stops. Just slows down, waits, and then flows again when the time is right.”

As I walked away, I carried his words with me, thinking of all the ways life, too, had its own frozen moments—ones that, given time, would eventually thaw.