Frothy white caps chomp across the lake, nervous,
tempest-tossed. Raw. Determined. We notice something bobbing half a mile away,
headed toward us.
“Well, it’s not a boat.
A person would be crazy to be out there today. Probably a chunk of
cattails from the opposite shore,” I remark.
Sure enough, Cattail Island steadily advances. Finally it rams into our seawall with a
dramatic crash, its spindly, dry grasses hurling wildly. I can imagine them screaming
- not in agony or protest as much as celebration of purpose and fate.
The waves aren’t finished, however. They batter and shove, forcing the clump along
the shore - erratic, stumbling, drunk
with adventure. I wonder at its lot here in foreign territory where smooth, manicured
shorelines lack the cubbies of the wild shore.
I stare down this alien that has been torn from its familiar home and
carried beyond, fluffy seed heads now stripped naked, legacy sprayed
abroad. The clump nods in return, laughing
now, testifying to the freedom that comes with surrender to destiny.
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