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Quiet Flows the Una
seething exuberance of the
living world. I began to run as
hot drops came down on me
like big, mother’s tears. My
sodden white T-shirt clung to
my body. I jumped seething
puddles, enjoying the crazy
feeling of freedom that filled
my chest and spread through
myveins. Iwas a land-dwelling
dolphin, a flying squirrel, a
fiery flamingo pacing across
mudflats that smelt pure and
pristine.
That feeling of freedom
blurred my reason and
intoxicated me with the
raindrops, and I stopped at
every flowerwhosepollen the
rainhadsmudged, stroked the
broad leaves of a plantago,
ran my finger down a blade
of wild barley and gazed at
the molehills evaporating the
earth’s abundant warmth.
What osmosis!
I thought I could fly with
euphoria, like in a dream
when I lift off in a sitting
position, and simply wave
my
outstretched
hands
instead of wings and soon
rise up above the ground. I
float over the treetops and
the roofs of familiar houses,
always close to the ground,
hoping for a soft landing the
moment the enchantment
wore off. Except that this
now was a dream with my
eyes open, a vision on a river
island beneath a rainy sky.
Not for a second could I see
what was to come as I stared
at the network of veins on a
leaf, still green, that the wind
had torn off; as I fingered the
oily fin of a grayling; or as I
kneaded a lump of red clay
fromHumHill inmy hand. Like
I say, there were no symbols
and signposts towards what
was to come. The war year
1992 was far away.