River Paddle On A Frosty Day

Read my To Do list - threw it on the fire. 

Put on my red coat. 

Found two dry oak leaves in a pocket -  catch a falling leaf, get a wish, I remembered, so I put them on the fire too, to let the wishes be free. 

And walked back to where that tree stood bare, and further through the woods. 

I found treasures, such as stacks and globs of fungus growing in turned up roots - that tree too I knew - before it fell, recalling how its roots were snaky and caught at our feet. 

I found the drowned quarry blooming with algae like some suspect cauldron, stirred with weeping branches.

Heard the wind above singing in a language I recognised but could not translate.

Rested briefly at my favourite bench, a felled tree this one, left jutting over the river. 

Strolled to where the river has a beach, storm strewn in flat stones; the wind chill too much for an unplanned swim by an un-furred creature. 

At my feet, two heart shaped stones. Puddles have skins of ice. 

But I long for the water.

Walk further, to the mossed stone bank, wind-shielded by valley hills. 

Deep green, deep spongy moss where I slip off each boot, each sock, laugh at the pale glow of this skin. The water is cold, biting cold, the un-mossed rocks too slippery and too sharp - this paddle is done in less than half a minute - I love every second of it. 

Sit on a dry slab, chuckling, dabbing off drips, rolling good socks onto bright feet.