The River and the Cherub

He has existed for as long as He remembers. So does She.

Listening to the River. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.  He has been there so long he forgets why he is listening. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. He just does what He knows and doesn’t dwell on why. After all, being still He learns not to dwell…but that was so long ago He has forgotten how to dwell and knows the lesson doesn’t matter.

He simply is.


Everyday He sits alongside the River listening to Her song. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Most days He loves the song the River plays for Him. After all, the River’s song is His song too. Without the River he would have no song at all. He would be alone. Except for the birds. But the birds never stay. They leave.

So He loves the River. He loves Her courage as She moves past Him. Singing to Him. Calling Him. Most days She is quiet. Soft. Whispering. Occasionally, very rarely, She is a raging torrent.
Like Him, She always exists. He can’t remember Her not being there. Here. Beside Him. Moving. Breathing. Flowing.

But He knows. Every day. Every moment He loves Her.

Well most days. Most moments. Mostly, loves Her. She never waits for Him. But every day She is all He has.

And He hates Her for it.

And so He hates the one He loves and spends His days playing with the Birds that love His listening. Waiting. Watching. Hoping. Even though He knows He is pretending to listen. To wait. To watch. To hope.

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