I have found that though I am a creature of the city prowl, I shrink into the arms of Mother Nature when I set foot in the water. As I rid myself of my heavy streetwear and pluck my jewelry off my hands, my neck, my ears, she holds them for me. She makes me a promise that I can step back into my now-empty city shoes the same as before.
She picks me up and caresses my cheek; her hands smell like algae and mud. Her hair tangles with mine, the stark blonde mixing into her shades of green. I use electric SUP pump to get my paddleboard ready and I get in. For a split second, I feel myself floating down, down, like a leaf in late autumn. Oars grow from her arms and fall into mine; the smooth wood lay familiar in my lap. Grooves exist where my hands wrap around the slender branches. I stick my hand deep in the water, feeling the chill of it wrap around my fingers, seaweed interlocking with my extremities as if that were where they took root. I plunge the first oar into the water, she looks at me, shines her earthly grin, and sends me off on my path.
Swiftly, I make my first row; the wood tugs on the current of the river. They engage in a battle of force. Will the rushing water break the oar? Or will it rise above the surface to be plunged back yet again? Around me, I observe the levels of nature versus nature that exist in what we observe as harmony. I watch a crawfish grabbing for a minnow with his pincers. The fish is fast, but his tail is entrapped in the nature-crafted cage of the shellfish. I was as eagles soar through the sky in observance and violently dive to retrieve their lunch.
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