Snapshot or Video
Essay 14, Finite
by gayla mills
I’m at the edge of the river, the end of the world. Hard
to believe a ninety degree turn reveals the distant downtown skyline. But I’m
looking upstream, in another place entirely.
The world shifts from snapshot to video. Everything is
moving. It’s like I’m tripping. There’s a steady current of swallowtails flying
upstream above the water. There are hundreds, enough birds to make a solid river
against the pale blue sky. Higher up, the clouds shift the opposite direction,
at half the pace but covering twice the distance. They’re in no hurry, but they
are brisk. A glance downward, and the river glides over rocks, stumbles around
crevices, crashes over stubbly brush, burps over itself. Leaves play in their
whimsical spiral. I feel grateful for verbs.
Now the canines make themselves known.
They do more than charge over the rocks. They sail. Unearthed, gravity
free, they twist and fly. Their tongues can’t keep up as their heads cleave the
air. I watch them soar, emotion in motion. They are the principle actors in the
film, but the rest is more than just scenery. The water, the clouds, the leaves,
the sunlight—these are actors too.
I am slammed by the beauty of it all. I want to reach out
and grab it, freeze the frame, make the world stop and just be. Just like that.
But it keeps moving, and I know that it’s rushing toward
winter. Then the birds will snuggle up in their nests. The river will shiver and
slow down. The dogs will sleep by the fire. And I’ll wonder why the seasons get
shorter each year.
But for now, I am the anchor, holding the earth together.
I am the snapshot in the video world. Only my chest flutters.
Next
to believe a ninety degree turn reveals the distant downtown skyline. But I’m
looking upstream, in another place entirely.
The world shifts from snapshot to video. Everything is
moving. It’s like I’m tripping. There’s a steady current of swallowtails flying
upstream above the water. There are hundreds, enough birds to make a solid river
against the pale blue sky. Higher up, the clouds shift the opposite direction,
at half the pace but covering twice the distance. They’re in no hurry, but they
are brisk. A glance downward, and the river glides over rocks, stumbles around
crevices, crashes over stubbly brush, burps over itself. Leaves play in their
whimsical spiral. I feel grateful for verbs.
Now the canines make themselves known.
They do more than charge over the rocks. They sail. Unearthed, gravity
free, they twist and fly. Their tongues can’t keep up as their heads cleave the
air. I watch them soar, emotion in motion. They are the principle actors in the
film, but the rest is more than just scenery. The water, the clouds, the leaves,
the sunlight—these are actors too.
I am slammed by the beauty of it all. I want to reach out
and grab it, freeze the frame, make the world stop and just be. Just like that.
But it keeps moving, and I know that it’s rushing toward
winter. Then the birds will snuggle up in their nests. The river will shiver and
slow down. The dogs will sleep by the fire. And I’ll wonder why the seasons get
shorter each year.
But for now, I am the anchor, holding the earth together.
I am the snapshot in the video world. Only my chest flutters.
Next