September 16, 2002

Little Yellow

A snaky rivulet, named Little Yellow, once started a journey down the dark mountain. Tumbling down her side, it playfully ran along and across paths that men have tread and paths that men have not. Hiding under the shadow of age old trees, over terrain that scarred and diverted ran Little Yellow, cascading and running around obstructions, guided by a natural inclination.

In Little Yellow, there lived a little dream, as it ran evading the larger streams, to grow on its own, to pick the odd drop from here and the odd puddle from there, to run strong and mighty hidden from prying eyes, to merge with the ocean at some point in life. A logical destination, an aim destined by birth, to lose itself, to be one and to culminate in the salty caress of the silky waves.

As fate would have it, like the life saving dry leaf for the ant it once happened to topple, a twist occurred that caused its course to obstruct. The mighty rivulet that once ran led on by a mighty heart, now lies engulfed from all sides by land as a sad and rotting swamp. Enclosed by fences and imprisoned in the plains, lies Little Yellow, guarded and inhabited by monsters that constitute its main claim to fame.

Years have passed since the swamp had formed and also around the much feared morass have formed many a nameless tale. One of them speaks of certain moonlit nights when flows across the swamp a spirit, of a little river, that can only to be heard and never be seen as it rushes forth towards the ocean in a wonderful dream.