The River
Long ago, along a long, languid river that snaked and rolled through the little town of Lilygrove, a young woman lay on the broad riverbank. Her hair streamed in the water like river weed, dark as that bank and the silt below, combed and plaited by the caressing fingers of the river’s flow. It sang to her, the river. It crooned sweetly, bubbling the current of a lullaby that poured through her, a river through her soul. Here she was born beneath the rhythms of time, borne on the river like a little leaf, spinning, spinning, until her river-blue eyes opened upon a hushed blue sky and smiled into the winter sun. There she lay upon the riverbank. And there she found her shape.
There she woke. For a time she simply watched, curious fingers raised to dewy cheeks, eyes wide with wonder at the lily-white woman reflected in the river. More than once she plunged her face deep into the otherworld below. Always, she surfaced gasping. No matter how wistful her gaze, she could not return to that otherworld.
