The Rocky Stream

Mercy snapped the leafy green twig in her hand and put it to her nose. The spicy small made her mouth water. The promise of sassafras tea pulled her from her slumber. She put the small pan on the front burner and lumbered through the open screen door. She felt the breeze tug her long linen gown through the tines on the balcony railing. Her tangled hair covered her face. The low sweeping clouds held the creek like a spell whirling just below her bare feet.

She could hardly begrudge Boomer for waking her. The shaggy dog drank as if he thought he could lap up the entire river into his mouth. His bark echoed up through the thicket of trees. The cool mountain air settled around her like a robe. It was just one of a thousand merciful moments since the move from the city.

The small town sang to her like a siren song when they first came to the valley five years ago. The trout captured Robert, no doubt, more than anything, certainly more than he snagged anything each faithful morning. They thought about trying again to have a little one. It was certainly ideal, the place they landed after the storm, but neither of them had the courage to love something they could lose.

Mercy was content to hear the delighted squeals of the children floating down the river on the bright yellow tubes. When the sun filtered through the oaks and streaked across the ripples the scene repeated itself all summer long. The rocks were the key, the stony places where the water collided with the current. It brought visitors to her all through out the summer swell and in the cooler months it gave her time to reflect on the peace and tranquil stream.