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?

Strolling by the river...

“Isn’t it a little cold to go diving?” I ask conversationally of the two gentlemen in black scuba-diving gear as they make final preparations on the wooden dock below me.
“It’s warmer in the water than it is out here,” says the younger one as he slips his yellow-rimmed goggles over his eyes, causing his lips to pucker out of his very red face, “Plus two degrees under the surface.”
“Under these suits we have more on than you do,” the older and rounder man explains. He has a very neatly trimmed mustache.
“What do you see down there?” I wonder.
“All the things you folks throw in!” the younger man grins.
I pry a little more. Apparently they have been scuba-diving for a few years now, and the river bottom in Heinola is not a bad place to dive, as diving places go.
“Too bad we don’t have a third suit with us, and you could come along,” they say, making their last preparations with their flippers.
“It is too bad,” I say as I lean casually on the snow-covered railing, “But I am on my way to buy cake.”
“You don’t seem too put out by our lack of extra gear,” the older man eyes the water.
“No, cake is also good,” says the younger.
“It is. Have a great dive!” I wish them on their way and continue mine past the boat docks.