A Moment of Joy

I sat with my toes dangling in the meandering stream at the bottom of our garden. They had been in just long enough for the refreshing vibrancy of the chill water to turn into a slightly uncomfortable tingle. I had crayfish traps laid out below me, weighted against the flow with stones.
I had baited them with some tinned cat food. Pungent stuff, I had always caught a good number of the Signal Crayfish with that.
Shards of wood fell by my feet as I whittled, floating away on the current to confuse some hungry trout.
My pocket knife flicked and danced, seeming to kiss the as yet shapeless lump of wood in my hand. Turning both my wrists to complement the other’s movements I chipped away deftly, working to the image of a rearing horse I had formed in my mind.
My hands continued to work as I looked up, distracted by a splashing sound from downstream.
My eyes found a young girl of 16, maybe 17 years old. She wore a white dress that flowed like the stream she was stood in. Dancing in would be a better description. She kicked her feet to her own rhythm, sending water flying to each side of her.
I found myself captivated by her movements, her freedom of expression. I had no idea who she was or what she was doing in our stream, but I couldn’t find the space in my mind to care.
Her long, dark hair weaved about her as if dancing a slower dance that was a beat or two behind.
My hands kept working.
The girl kept dancing. Her eyes were peacefully closed, unaware or uncaring of her audience. She thrust her hands above her head, trying to grasp the very air we both breathed in. Swaying slowly now she started to softly sing.
I am not a poetic man, but I swear her song would have charmed nightingales down from the branch and enticed them to sing with her. Her voice sounded like the stream tickling past. She sang of events she had seen, lovers that had come and gone, wisdom she was surely too young to possess.
The woodchips reached her ankles, one of the larger chunks bumping against her. She stopped singing and opened her eyes.
Without that song the world around me seemed duller, less alive.
Her eyes found mine. She smiled sweetly at me, looked down at my hands, and fled.
It took me sometime to regain my senses. When I did I looked at my finished work.
I had intended to carve a horse, majestic and inspiring.
I had unwittingly created a tiny and beautiful replica of my dancing apparition.
To this day, after many years have passed, the absence of that song creates a cage around my heart.
And then I look at that little wooden dancer, in a pose of utmost freedom, and my heart soars. Just for a while.