The Leaf

The bridge is made of wood; old and mossy.  Under the bridge, a small stream flows, cool and shallow.  You can see the fine blond sand at the bottom.  A yellow aspen leaf, edged in red and black and dappled with dark spots floats atop the water.  The leaf approaches a smooth sandbar, which divides the stream in two.  It seems to sense the division, the dichotomy it faces.  It vacillates, hesitant, for a moment. Then, with sweet grace, it surrenders and drifts to the left, contentedly.  My heart clinches a little for the leaf, and for all of us.  But it does not seem to mind.  It continues quietly along the way.  It passes beneath my feet, and I turn to see where it will go.  The two rivulets join together again, as the sandbar sinks beneath the surface of the stream.