Bram Gives the Current Away — Every day, Bram rode the first current hard, slicing between lotus stems before the herons lifted their pale feet from the mud. Read the full story →
Every day, Bram rode the first current hard, slicing between lotus stems before the herons lifted their pale feet from the mud. He wanted one clean lap before the sun warmed the water and slowed it to silk. The rush hissed along his sides; cattail pollen peppered the air.
Until one day, a glasswing beetle dropped from an overhanging willow and struck the pond like a bead. Its legs skittered on the surface, too light to sink, too tired to rise. Because of that, Bram broke his lap and circled once, then twice, shaping the water into a small, spinning bowl. Because of that, the current he had saved for speed caught the beetle and carried it, trembling, to the rough green lip of a lotus pad.
No heron called praise. No frog clapped from the bank. Bram only felt the current loosen and run on without him, bright and quick under the clouds, while the beetle opened its clear wings in the sun. Then Bram tucked his bill low and followed the water’s hiss between lotus stems, taking one clean lap after all.
