I stand split legged over the thin stream that cuts along the back wall of our garden. Grassy gravel on one side, an enormous jigsaw wall of stone on the other, it is a division between masses. The sun is the out-of-place wrong watt bulb in a white walled interrogation room. It is immense and oh so present.
To the stream’s slow trickle I give my gaze; full and intrigued. Leering into it now on soggy limbs, my callow face breaks the surface of the cool water and I submerge myself entirely in its southerly flow.
I am a tadpole now. My slender body is evolutionarily adept at navigating this meandering course. I am a passenger within myself until fuller lungs and legs allow me to control my actions. I lose my tail over time and begin to leap vivaciously to the bewilderment and jealousy of my fellow garden amphibians. This is the joy of evolution, of existence.
Sadly, I begin to leap less for adventure and more so for reassurance, of which there is none. Age, the line to which we are each hooked, reels in.
Washed onto a small stone streamside, I become moss. From here I watch the tadpoles swim aimlessly and grow into frogs. To these I provide an afternoon perch; they are kind and fulfilled. Time too holds no special place for me, no slice of itself into which my youth can be saved. Into the undertow I am swept one November evening, far from the gaiety of garden life I so enjoyed watching.
I am on all fours above the stream once more. Homesick water droplets plunge from my face. I look down at the reflection looking up. It is nascent, hopeful, almost human.
Almost.
-end-
all words are mine. if you enjoyed the piece, let me know.
Gene Murphy Writer 
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