February 13: We have seen each other

Thanks to short, tight bursts of rain, it has been a little cooler. Just before and soon after, though, the humidity is huge and cumbersome, and I wonder why any of us bothers with relief; it is so short-lived.

I step out onto my stoep, arms spread wide in surrender to a breeze to cool my sweat, and sweep my gaze along the steadily broadening, rising river. A hippo is submerged (I am envious!), and she is all sweet eyes and tender ears and knobbly nostrils. Training my binoculars, I see that she sees me.

I wave, and she turns to have a better view.

We are seeing each other!

I am moved to a small bow, hands clapped to prayer. I hold myself back from waving again, from breaking the spell of the hippo-curious.

When the rain begins, I shrug off the habit of taking shelter, annoyed by the domesticity of indoors. I will move away only when she does. My hair is soon spiralling around my face, a halo, and I am clothes-stuck wet through. Finally, she glides away, lost to a fig tree darkened bend of the river, and to me.

We have seen each other.

Perhaps tomorrow we will do it again.

This is part of a series of reflections on small things, big moments, and all the living that happens in between—with the bushveld as my companion. I share them randomly for now, and hope they’ll bring a smile.

PHOTO: Subi Sridharan/Pixabay