All rivers run into the sea.
A group of pickers descended upon the orchard just as I finished my work. I stood by the window and watched them tug the pudgy bottom-heavy fruit from the trees. “I’ll miss the pears,” I said to God. I had grown used to seeing them dangling like ornaments from the trees.
“It’s their time,” God said.
“I know, everything has a season.”
That’s right,” God said. “One season fades into the next, like the rivers into the sea.”
“You’re a poet today, God!” I replied and smiled. I looked out over the rolling hills. The sun, now sinking towards the western horizon, painted the treetops orange. A lone hawk circled soundlessly above while the metronome tap, tap, tap, of a woodpecker kept perfect time. “You’re a poet every day. You must be, to create such grandeur.”
“Not everyone can see it,” God said.”Only those who aren’t frightened by impermanence can see it—those who understand that the river isn’t lost to the sea, but rather the two of them go on together, ecstatic to have finally found one other after so long apart.”
A breeze kicked up and sent leaves tumbling across the yard. “The pears may be gone, but soon, there will pumpkins” God whispered. I nodded and reached out for His hand to hold as the last picker walked out of the orchard.