Still Water

Story  ·  Nara  ·  Aug 26, 2026

The river does not wait for the leaves.

It moves the same way it moved yesterday, and the day before that — unhurried, without memory of what it carried or what it let go. A branch passed through this bend last week. The river does not know this. The river only moves.

In autumn, the leaves come. Not all at once, but steadily — one from the oak at the top of the hill, two from the maple that leans out over the water. They arrive from somewhere upstream. They were not placed here. They simply appear at the bend, and then they are gone.

On quiet days, nothing comes. The surface holds the sky. A cloud passes through it, slowly, and dissolves at the edge where the water quickens. A stone on the riverbed catches the light and lets it go. There is nothing to watch, and yet the watching continues — because the river is still moving, even when it carries nothing. Even still water is going somewhere.

The leaves that come are not yours. They came from a tree you did not plant, on a hillside you may never walk. They pass through the part of the river you can see, and then they pass out of it. What remains is the water. What remains is the bank, and the person standing on it, watching the bend for whatever comes next.

Not waiting, exactly. Just present. Just here, where the river turns.