In a time of blustering babble, I choose the tinkling of sycamore leaves.
In a time of endless war, I choose the hand extended.
I do not have the strength or the desire to fight each fight these days. It is hard on my body and fatal to my soul.
Which is why, in a time of tidal waves, I have chosen ripples.
What a joy it has been to spend fall with teens, wandering the woods together, looking for snails and woolly bears. What a pleasure it is to hear their laughter, as they scoop minnows from a quiet pool in the creek.
I know. I know. Children in cages and presidents imploding and the earth is melting and and and
. . . and I listen as a young girl, embarrassed, admits to me she sometimes hates her species, "so it's really nice to be in the woods today."
A tall young man falls back from his classmates, joining me at the end of the line. "I got to go to Estes and the Badlands this summer. Can I show you some photos?"
I dawdle with a spirited junior as he stops at a dead log and takes photos of mushrooms and lichen, set against the green backdrop of a hundred happy trees. "I could stay here forever."
I know. I know.
Tell me again that the Platte is not filled with future oceans. Tell me again that our young cannot stretch and open up and lose themselves in wonder.
Tell me again how the ripples do not change things.
