Thursday, November 12, 2009

Toot, Whistle or Honk

Four hours passed quickly on the bank of the river today. The trail, scented with moist evergreens mixed with ferns, moss, and spongy loam made me feel drunk. Splash a blue sky overhead, sprinkle the grass with cut glass, then layer a continuous sound loop from the river skipping over the laughing rock; I'm completely seduced.

Rudyard Kipling's line.....'the great, grey, greasy, Limpopo river, all set about with fever trees' kept jiggling around in my head.

My river spot is in the path of small planes coming in or going out from the airport. I have a childish habit of waving to them. Eight times out of ten, they gallantly tip their wing at me, gentlemanly like. The sunshine makes the wing appear to wink. This always makes me smile. Sometimes they put on loopity loop shows for me. Free. This makes me clap.

What is it that makes me try to get a tug boat captain to toot, a truck driver to honk, a train engineer to pull that whistle? It's seems ridiculous, but it's a little like an acknowledgement that we're both enjoying this moment today. Liking where we are, loving what we are doing, seeing each other, noticing. I never tire of the game, because the response is its own reward. It always makes me smile.

Sort of like shaking hands or hugging a new friend, but across impossible distance, which makes the connection a small miracle.

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