Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out

Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out


There was a little stream—more of a rivulet, really—that dribbled and dripped and murmured along through a swath of untamed land.  Many moons and suns cast their light upon her waters as she found her way around boulders and hills and the wide trunks of venerable trees. She was free of any precepts that might lead her to guess where her journey would take her.

Little Stream swelled appreciably when it rained, and gathered her droplets in close when there was drought.  Small passing creatures sometimes stopped to sip as they made their way through the wildlands. Grasses and flowering weeds greened themselves where she touched them. Tiny river was gracious with their thirst, and generous.

By and by the quiet little river began to meet new obstacles—rocks piled into long walls and loud tractors carving patterns in the earth. She felt her way around and through, managing to avoid the occasional holes and ledges that could swallow her up. She trickled by barns and houses, rolled along beside hard paved roads.

One day she heard a new sound, a strident clamoring that became roar as she meandered closer to its source. Two suns set before she snaked her way up close beside a great thundering river that caused the ground to tremble around and below her meager flow.

Little quivered as she felt herself drawn ever closer to the impatient surge. One sharp turn grabbed her body and Big River pulled her hungrily into a massive embrace. It was at once exhilarating and terrifying! Her petite contours began to lose their edges as she was prodded and rushed along with the millions of other droplets. They were so loud, and so fast!  She’d always been quiet, and slow in her ways. Hurtling along, she summoned her best watery gurgle. The tiny sound was lost amid the prevailing clamor. Big River was a mighty symphony, determined to absorb her collected drops.

“What’s the use of struggling?”  thought Little Stream. “With all this watery abundance, my little flow has lost any meaning for the creatures and the plants. I may as well give in, give up, and yield to the fate that has befallen me.”

To Be Continued………


–Melinda Coppola

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