Simply put, there is nothing remarkable about it; this unobserved journey having taken place so many times before.
It begins in the dark canopy, a tiny unseen severance, a snap barely heard. An invisible movement, unlit by the merest sliver of moon. It tumbles with others to the forest floor.
For a while the twig lays still.
Through the long dark hours of night it tumbles occasionally, tossed around in random patterns with others of its kind. As the morning wind rises with the sun, its progress towards the river bank increases. The gentle waters that snake through this wooded place will eventually take it.
Day by day it is swept across the forest floor, along with other finished pieces of nature. At the appointed time it is swept down the bank and taken by the water. A narrow stream that glides slowly through its allotted passage.
It floats now, snagging occasionally, each time freeing again to move on. Many more days of this pass before the widening river meets the sea. There, it is taken out by the tides, to be swallowed by the vast waters.
There, to be forever lost in the great ocean.
There is nothing remarkable about it; this unobserved journey having taken place so many times before.
–
…or, one may say…
It is, by its very nature, an iterative event meaning very little or nothing at all to most that walk this world.
Why is this so?
Should all of humankind be taking notice?
Should they want to know its every stage?
Is it generally considered to be of little importance, with nothing remarkable about it; this unobserved journey, it having taken place so many times before?
It begins in the dark canopy, a tiny unseen severance, a snap barely heard.
How powerful would be the feeling, the experience of being close enough to hear the sound made, amid all others, way above the forest floor.
Meantime, it continues. An invisible movement, unlit by the merest sliver of moon.
It tumbles with others to nature’s floor.
For a while the twig lays still.
To be there at that moment, as it settles, would be for some, precious.
Then, to witness, as through the long dark hours of night it tumbles occasionally, tossed around in random patterns with others of its kind.
To be there, as the morning wind rises with the sun, and its progress towards the river bank increases.
From moment to moment this could be seen.
The gentle waters that snake through this wooded place will eventually take it.
A patient observer would watch and wait.
Day by day it is swept across the ground’s scatterings, along with other finished pieces of nature.
The onlooker would have no concern about how much of this random time is taken.
At the appointed time it is swept down the bank and taken by the water.
This watcher follows.
A narrow stream glides slowly through its allotted passage.
Look on.
It floats now, snagging occasionally, each time freeing again to move on.
Watch.
Many more days of this pass before the widening river meets the sea.
See this.
There, it is taken out by the tides, to be swallowed by the vast waters.
Here, lost from sight.
There, it is swallowed, to be forever lost in the great ocean.
Can it really be that there is nothing remarkable about it; because this unobserved journey has taken place so many times before?