Rain
I felt quite excited as I went into the garage to unearth my waterproof boots, buried under picnic blankets and beach towels. The boots were still crusted with mud from their last outing, in the dim and distant past when it used to rain. Boots strapped on, waterproof jacket zipped up, I headed to the dried up stream bed, wondering if it would be flowing after a few hours of torrential rain.
Standing on a huge block of gritstone that bridges a narrow gully, I watched the narrow fast stream flying below. Beyond here, the path becomes a stream-bed, so I rest one foot in the water to rinse off the dried mud. Watching the dirty water draining down to hit the main stream at a sharp angle, travelling against the flow I wonder, if I put my hand in, would I be able to feel an edge between two forces where the streams meet?
Gravity means that the streams will reach an agreement about their route eventually, but first they have to use the momentum they have gathered in a big crashing fight. The surface of the water folds back on itself in a line of white froth. A thick arched curl of dense bubbles repeatedly forms and races back against the flow of the incoming stream, before being smashed apart.
I look for the precise boundary between two edges, two bodies of water crashing into each other, even though I know it is impossible to see. The edge is an invisble, rippling line, a border being constantly negotiated and renogotiated. Eventually the two streams dissolve their differences and merge in agreement.
Unwanted thoughts slide into my mind, of war and fighting, forces pushing and barging, trying to force others to follow their line, shift their borders. I take a breath and bring my attention back to the swirling foaming water and see it afresh, more dancing than fighting, throwing itself into the melee, then sliding off downhill to see what else it can find.