Thomas Doty – Storyteller
Nowhere To Go
In October, after years of drought, Dry Creek is as dry as its name. I crawl under the footbridge and have a look.
Sticks in the dirt are bones without their skin of water, and lily pads, once bright green and floating, lie brown and flat like old kelp. I see the debris of my childhood: a scattering of rusty nails, the sawed end of a water-logged two by four, a short length of rope. I was eleven when I helped build this bridge.
Without water, this footbridge floats between the lack of a beginning and nowhere to go ... suspended, unconnected. At Dry Creek, no one walks the bridge. Footprints cover dirt that used to be water.