Gravity works its invisible magic on water, and the magnificent duet works its way with me.

I love water. I drink it by the carbonated quart, bathe under its spray daily, and make use of it in a million unthinking and wasteful ways. We know that drill, our disconnected disregard for what we too long assumed an unlimited resource.

I’m not going there today. Water, or rather its uncanny ability to transform to the realities of its environment, caught my attention when out running errands. Narrowing it down, I downshifted through its liquid formulations, from oceans to seas to lakes, on past rivers. I hit the brakes somewhere around streams, before they branched into capillaryesque brooks.

Spring’s adolescent sun provided added impetus to retake the out-of-doors, compelling me toward a place to throw down my mark as an arrogant personal epitaph to a winter that overstayed its welcome. From an endless portfolio of memories, I selected a settle-in spot: a wooded area bifurcated by the serpentine meandering of a stream swollen with fresh snowmelt and recent rain, its girth no more than an almost leapable three metres, the depth of its cool waters but capable of tickling the bottom of my underdeveloped breasts.

The search ended on a peninsula within one sharp U in the stream’s course, where the prior summer’s field grass lay ironed flat and tidied by an overrush of water two weeks before. Somewhere near centre, a solitary elm tree stood stalwart against a blight that claimed almost all of its sistren cross-country, still dominating the thumb-shaped swath of land. Near this impressive survivor I parked, resting my back against its craggy, two-centuries-old bark. Casting away my worries, I savoured the happy trill of birds just returned and consistent murmur of the beautiful stream coursing through my mind.

Bending around me as if by will and unlike me, the relentless yet unrushed rivulet seemed content with its destiny, an insatiable river clamouring for its feed.