6/21/2023 0 Comments Dillard pilgrim at tinker creek![]() ![]() I feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.” It spills toward me streaming over a series of sandstone tiers, down and down, and down. Between the dangling wands of bankside willows, and Osage orange, I see the creek pour down. The channel here is straight as an arrow grace is itself an archer. It is so much sky, a fallen shred caught in the cleft of banks. Under the bridge and beyond it the water is flat and silent, blued by distance and stilled by depth. In the far distance I can see the concrete bridge where the road crosses the creek. You may wake and look from the window and breathe the real air, and say, with satisfaction or longing, “This is it.” But if you look up the creek, if you look up the creek in any weather, your spirit fills, and you are saying, with an exulting rise of the lungs, “Here it comes!” ![]() I look up the creek and here it comes, the future, being borne aloft as on a winding succession of laden trays. ![]()
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