Paths from the Stream

They come often. They come every day. They make paths through this forest I live in. They tread down the grass and the fallen leaves. They push their way through the bushes and clear away logs.

Paths grow from the ground. While once they were invisible and distorted, now they are clear. Clear red paths run through the forest joining the village to the well, to the stream, to the waterfall. They join that which was separate.

Water flows through the paths they have made and reaches the village. Life comes from afar when it could not before. It arrives at their doorsteps and they reach out. They take ladles from their cupboards and spoon up the liquid crystal. They drink it and breathe. They look out to the forest and marvel at the paths they have made.

"See the water flow," they say.

See it come from afar.

The water flows from the stream and gives them life. It grows inside them until it becomes a spring. A single drop multiplies until it is a spring of life giving water. And they share the water.

They gather it in jars and give it to weary travelers. A haggard traveler arrives at their door and knocks. They receive a drink, a drink from the spring.

The traveler goes away again, carrying the spring. They carry it to another part of the world. They carry it from the forest. They carry it to the desert. They carry it to the sea.

These strangers carry life with them as they traverse the paths of the earth and wander into the sky. They take the paths up to the moon and wander among the stars. They leave drops of water here and there. They carve a hole out of the fabric of the sky and pour out a single drop.

And there it waits for a passerby.