POETRY | PROSE

Waterlings

I wandered into the forest of the waterlings

Image by Jonatan Pie via Unsplash

I wandered into the forest of the waterlings—fruit flies and mayflies, joyous as they may be, their sweltering wings swat away the bites of May middays, yet fan a cooling breeze against my face.

I sit across from a grove of gossiping birches, a river struts in between—letting down a liquid mane from a high stone tower, its fine mist brushing a hair’s breadth above silvered strands.

Robins whistle, and owls peer from the crack of veiled dawn. A watcher more brazen, I throw myself into the air and land feet first—not what I intended—upon pebbled and silted markings, veering the racing drops off course.

They churn a whirlpool around me, and I let their breathless chides sweep my limbs, as if I were a flightless bird swimming through a water sky.

I too am a fly—a waterling, I recall.

Thank you for reading. 🪴