Rory the River Stone's Gentle Journey

Rory tumbled one inch to the left. That was a very big move for a river stone. Last night, our little firefly friend Flicker flew miles across the meadow to reach that blooming moonflower. Rory, on the other hand, had not moved from his sandy dip beneath the willow tree in three full summers. He was perfectly round, cool to the touch, and speckled with tiny flecks of river-gold. All around him, cold spring water sang a quiet song against the bank. It was the sort of hush that makes you want to pull your quilt up under your chin. Rory loved his quiet home under the roots.

Still, as he listened to the gentle rush above his head, he wondered where the water went. The morning brought a gentle, steady rain. The creek swelled just a little, humming with fresh mountain melt. The current curled around Rory's curved shoulder, tugging like a warm hand in a woolen mitten. Rory held fast to the wet sand beneath him. He was quite used to staying in one spot, tucked safely out of the wind. Then came a great green frog named Barnaby, kicking strong green legs against the current. Barnaby's webbed foot gave Rory a playful nudge, dislodging him from his cozy bed.

The water lifted Rory up. He rolled. Not in a hurry, mind you, but in slow, sleepy somersaults over the clean gravel. "Going somewhere, Rory?" Barnaby croaked softly, drifting backward with the flow. "I think I might be," Rory whispered back. He slid over a cluster of green moss, silky and cold. A silver minnow darted alongside him, using Rory's smooth shadow as a tiny umbrella against the sunlight. They drifted past tall cattails that nodded their brown heads in the breeze. Whenever Rory bumped into another pebble, the river made a hollow clack-clack sound, like wooden beads sliding together.

Around a lazy bend, the river widened into a deep, still pool. The current slowed until it was barely moving at all, gentle as a rocker on a porch. Evening began to settle over the banks, painting the water in shades of lavender and slate. Rory drifted down, down, down toward the bottom. He felt the soft, familiar embrace of fine silt catching his side. He came to rest right between two old oak roots that curved like welcoming arms. Above him, the glass surface of the pool grew quiet. A silvery circle appeared on the water, shimmering and white.

It was the moon, looking right back down through the ripples. From up on the bank, a stone might look forgotten and still, like nothing ever happens to it at all. But down in the cool green dim, Rory knew the truth. A stone does not stay still because it's stuck. It rests because the whole river has worked all day to bring it home. The silver minnow tucked herself into the shadow of Rory's speckled curve to sleep. Rory settled deeper into the cool sand, letting the slow, heavy water rock him from side to side. Close your eyes now, little one. The river will watch over everything until morning.

Goodnight.