Potholes

Potholes, Indiana. A natural sluice. A salamander. The feeling of carefree childhood. Wonder, imagination, light. Sending my raw, cold bottom over the sandstone sluice to to drop joyfully in the cold deep pothole at the end. The riverbed carved and dangerous from time but joyful in my eyes. Wonderful, magical, a place to be feral and free. To eat peanut butter and jelly and Cheetos half soggy from my wet hands. I never knew as a child how like this ethereal place I would be as an adult. How I would be carved into deep cold pools where treading was necessary for survival. How those same cold pools would provide a place of respite from the slippery algae-covered shallows that lay between. How the sun would shine, and small expertly crafted creatures would thrive in these conditions. How warm and cold would lie side by side and create balance. How I would find in every crevice something awful, something terrible, something gross, and something lovely. How the shadows would grow plants not suited for the sun, and the sun would dry rock to warm my cold bum.