still

The wooden beams of the railroad bridge are still damp as I walk slowly over them, over the river running below, and over the island with the tall birch trees whose leaves glow in the evening sun. I enjoy the way the world looks after a rain. I'm glad I left the quietness of the house to feel the humidity in the air and hear the crunch of gravel under my feet. A sense of deja vu comes over me.

It is the fourth august that I have walked here, on this bridge, seen the boats docked on the shore of this city, and wandered the trails along this river. The returning feelings and senses that accompany the changing of seasons have invaded my afternoon stroll like companions set on taking me down their own route--I'd imagine down a familiar path called, "I wonder that I'm still here." But they take me down a road I've only seen a few times, into the forest trails of context and belonging, the hills of time where the sunset tells me how it has risen and set on generations of my ancestors in this land. I listen and look, aware that the view is friendly, yet foreign.

Will I ever stop counting the seasons I spend here?