The forest
has no tears this morning. On other days the leaves and grasses were full of
dew from the night. Today all tears about forbidden and impossible dreams had
been blown away by a crisp clear breeze. The air was cold and fresh. The sun is rising
up in a clear sky over the Boland Mountains.
Winter
changes the appearance of the forest and it looks so different. I crossed the
stream on a different spot than usual. A rock pool has been formed, big enough
to take a bath. But I did not bring a towel.
I rested
for a while, watching the water flow. Little bubbles are formed between the
rocks and floating like little spaceships on the surface. After a little time
they burst into hundreds of little drops; each has it’s own time. Some are only
there for seconds; some make it to the next rock. Each little dome reflecting
the beauty and the sun until the droplets join the stream again.
As I reach
the contour path I look down on the city. I can see the M5 busy with morning
traffic. The morning sun is bright and each car reflects the light like a
little silvery bubble floating on a stream of water. Each bubble containing a
soul floating past for the tiny fraction of a nano-second of the endless time
the mountain and the forest is watching this stream. We are only here for such
a tiny short time and we think it is so important. I thank the forest for
reminding me.
