part two of those shelves of imaginary jars of memory

Water based contents:

a sixth jar: the green ocean stretching out to all horizons from the small ship, which has for weeks been avoiding storms at sea. Sunlight at last, and suddenly--a whole flock of flying fish, glittering, silver, amazing. I was five years old.

Jar seven: a canyon in Baja California. I have been walking a long time with friends, stumbling over the red-orange rocks, my legs aching. As we come over yet another hill, the creek is there, and has made rounded, smooth pools in the stone, carved by centuries of water. Hot day, cool blue green pools. And not too far away, hot springs bubbling from the red earth.

The eighth jar: carrying my then small first born I go walking through the acreage where my cabin sits at the top corner. It is spring, the honey scented bells of the madrone flowers are dropping from the trees, making little pools of whiteness under the red barked limbs. The trilliums, three cornered, surprising, light up the darkness of the woods. I am following the sound of water, knowing where one spring bubbles from the roots of a century old baylaurel tree, but hearing water sounds further on, mirrored by the water sounds of the mating ravens. The raven sound is like water being poured from narrow jugs. My baby smiles at the sound of it. As I stop for breath I notice the ferns thickly clustered at the steep hillside near my path, and there I see the pure, clear water gushing over white stone.
The bluegreen bit of rock I pick up is a bird point, a tiny arrowhead. I sit a long time thinking about the hands that made that point, and the families that walked here, and paused to sip the clear, sweet water flowing on and on.