Rain and Reeds

Seasons, Part I

On the fringes of a city, as the land sprawled lazily into grasses and flowers, was a marvelous marshland. In it crawled and buzzed and swam and fluttered the most incredible organisms, all working along to the steady heartbeat thrumming up from the bowels of the world.

Yes, the denizens of the marsh coexisted as any ecosystem required--the rowdy day-creatures perused the banks and water until the darkness stole in. And then out slipped the nocturnal wonders, barely whispers as they shuffled in the night. Owls leapt from their hollows in the trees and flew across the wetland to the quiet pasturelands, where the field mice hid in long stalks of grass. In the summer, the quiet was disturbed only by the scatting of rotating sprinklers--a muffled phut-phut-phut.

In autumn there was no need for sprinklers. In those shifting months, the rains fell. The pasturelands grew green and lush. The ponds of the marsh swelled and darkened as the clouds stayed steady above. The cattails and skunk cabbage shivered with thoughts of approaching frosts. The moon hung ripe and heavy as harvest time rolled around.

One overcast October night, a heron stood stoically at the edge of a deepening pond. The bitter clouds cast the region in darkness, and the water was black and serene. Within it the tadpoles had gone to sleep, and the water skippers scudded the surface with absent minds. It began to rain gentle mist, which progressed into a steady downpour.

To any observer, the heron would not have appeared to have moved an inch. The rain fell thick  around it, dappling its feathers and running in creeks down its everstanding legs. Its eyes blinked rhythmically, flashing bright against the pond's muted shadows. The heron seemed to hold some great sorrow within it, sitting out late in a stormy vigil.

The rain wouldn't relent, and the heron wouldn't leave. It stayed until the night's patience wore thin.

Yet some people still have the heart to say that animals can't feel pain.