Finding High Ground

There is no place to cross the river, here. Waters rushing fast and pulling everything along with it. This is the way it is after heavy rain or thaw. No place to cross the river.

No where to skirt the fire, here. All around the flames lick old cedars, catching the oils of the tree so that the hot charged flicks of flare jump up and consume fast and faster. No where to skirt the fire.

No shelter from the wind, here. Across the high desert and relentless whistling here. No crossing it now its formless piercing flow. No one can see where the force pushes from, but..............no shelter from the wind.

Sometimes, if we wait, the water slows. Sometimes, if we wait, the fire ebbs. Sometimes, if we wait, the wind dies. And, sometimes, we take another way.

Grandfather, I will take another way.