Pleasure Pausing

In a lifetime of passing this way, I've never seen Fales River so low. A desolate expanse of exposed stones from my perch on McMaster Bridge, looking down on the tiny trickle winding between them. It's a drought beyond all others since decades before. The width of this space gives away just what a roaring torrent it can carry. Some kind of false fall seems to have started this week, hints of autumn in yellowed leaves, stressed from consistent lack of rain. But who would I be if I couldn't see the beauty in it? There's something pretty even in what's stagnant, a sort of sleepy notion in a world that waits for a long, deep drink. Cracked skin on the face of a ragged cowboy, eager for shade and a break from the dust. You'll never find me forgetful of the upsides. As twilight fell, I struck up a conversation with the folks across the way. They live with a view many would envy, rusty old bridge and the soundtrack of water lulling to sleep. I listened in the shadows to the lilting song of a partially-assimilated Scottish accent and a parrot pecking at the window glass. Always a pleasure pausing in the company of strangers.

August 8, 2025
South Tremont, Nova Scotia

Year 18, Day 6480 of my daily journal.