It was in early May, when thimbleweed were dazzling in the slopes and thickets, when the soil still was embedded in the autumn grizzled leaf and whitened last year’s grass. The small river was holding up all the brimming water, as it seemed to have been waited too long in slumbering winter. Waited, despite the urging calls, to rush down towards the sea.
It was in the sun stroked flow, below in the deep of the stream, where she lured, long and silvery. She was a great fabled fish, a transformed goddess, a living being of magical kind. And in this place, traces of primeval times, whispers within our minds.
A stir of a movement from the east, stopped us, like we thought the wind was coming with a message from foreign lands. Although our sight fell into the river, upon the shape of the large and streamlined being, while she lay there, waddling back and forth in the water, watching over whatever precious the stream might bring. Either nutritive prey or- drifting spirits, could pass this Lady Mother and nor would we escape her clench, standing upon the banks of the river. Because the longing in our hearts are pleading to be enchanted, to be touched by meaning and passion and embraced by the wild. Our waiting presence yearn, both to be kept near our mother and to be released to the call of the flow.