Darby Creek- Hawan Jang

A moment

Dawn always commands quiet. A stillness that should not, must not, be broken. There are some places that steal the breath from your lungs, demanding to be admired, to hold your gaze until the end of time. The two combined create an aura of holiness, of sacredness, to the point where you will with every iota of your being to freeze this time, this moment, for all eternity.

When I crawled out of bed, the crickets were droning in the charcoal night. When I stumbled into the Uplander, a cool breeze tickled the leaves. When we rolled to a gentle stop on the gravel, the birds broke into tentative songs. And as we slid smoothly into the water, light softly kissed the horizon. This was the moment.

I caressed the water with my paddle, taking care not to scrape the side of the hull. Because dawn always commands quiet. The air was untainted. No cars honking, no noxious fumes of exhaust, only the breath of nature. It felt alive. Talking seemed to be in poor taste, as if it was a regular custom back in my world, but a blatant insult in this one. So I was quiet. And I listened, I smelled, I wanted more. The air began to hum with the rising bird calls. It wasn’t a cacophonous conversation, it was a harmonious tapestry, and I wanted to snuggle in it.

As we quietly meandered downstream, scintillating beams pierced the gray morning fog. I watched. Entranced. Dust particles swirled and danced in the light, teasing the brilliantly clear water. My eyes roved the scenery, from the vibrant tree swallows darting down to tap the surface to the green-yellow hue of summer leaves and sun. My gaze flitted up to glimpse the screech owl that glided across the water. We now spoke in soft murmurs. Dawn quietly conceded to day. The spell was broken.

The warbling creek beckoned to us, as the sun took up its vigilant watch. My head swiveled back and forth, to catch sight of fluttering wings in shadowed shrubs and bubbly splashes of leaping fish. We stopped often on sandbars to rummage through the riffles for darters and crayfish. I stood in the shallows, feeling the water weave between my toes and the wind tussling my hair. An occasional car or crash through the brush by some deer cut through the air, but it couldn’t tarnish the beauty of this place. The rest of the world knew it as Darby Creek, a quaint local attraction. We knew it as paradise.

I thought that dawn was the pinnacle of beauty, of quiet exhilaration. That it was the moment. My senses certainly agreed with me. But as I looked at the grins on their faces that mirrored my own, and their laughs that exploded freely from their lungs, my heart told me… no, this is the moment. And I agreed.