The River Last Night

Last night, right before bed, I went to the river. The rain from earlier still dripped in the trees, still shone on the rocks. Nocturnal birds chirped at the moon from their perches, not the call of a cold wolf's howl, but still, a call. To something. 

Another noise, a hushed snap, disarranged the quiet trees. A leaf, newly detached, floated to the ground where the mulch eaters waited with their thousands of little teeth. Those teeth, you see, like the falling leaf or the nocturnal bird in her perch, are a part of the natural chain of things- birth, death, rebirth. 

Today in New York, a friend bags his sea-stained, sand-wrecked possessions and hauls them to the curb for pick up. "I think it's time to live in an RV," he says. He had to evacuate his home on a blow up raft. "Could be worse," he says. His home, behind him, destroyed. "The trick-or-treaters still came," he says, and snaps a picture. He puts the picture up on Facebook, wishes everyone a Happy Halloween.

We too, a part of the natural chain. 

The Sandy River, 10:30 pm