Gone, water under the bridge they say as if the event, the person, the feeling is disposed of. But it’s not gone just gone somewhere else. Not disappeared, not effaced, that water just flows away to a river, to the sea, to a new form. It will turn into a cloud and fall, fall somewhere on earth, in a swamp, onto that same sea. The water under the bridge is never gone. It’s always flowing towards the bridge, it’s really “ under the bridge” for a second or so and then it’s flowing away, leaving the bridge behind. It’s in the glass I drink from, in the shower with me, in the water that greens up a lawn, that irrigates my food, that falls over a cliff in a jungle. Wherever I go the “ water under the bridge” is with me.
I like Boxing Day. There’s a relaxed feel to it that suits me. Walking through the park close to my home I noticed a group of turkeys. This is the first year I’ve seen in our park. It’s a true city park and I really wonder how they came here. There are big boulevards that surround it so I can’t imagine them crossing over. Two true city dogs were looking at them without even barking or tugging at the leash. I certainly wasn’t going to get too close. I preferred the company of this guard cat, sitting up on the parapet of the pond.