Dream d3634-s: The Cutter Stays

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the repaired plank rang once under a boot heel and then went quiet.

The first carrier was already past the far margin of the reeds - a silhouette with a pack set high on one shoulder, moving without looking back. The plank behind them showed the repair clearly in the early light: new timber at the center, pale against the grey of the older boards, slightly proud of the surface so that a foot crossing it would feel the join. Then the path curved and they were gone.

The reed cutter had not turned to watch. Her blade was already rising and falling, each cut making a small wet crack as the stalks fell in even rows to her left. She worked from the bank inward, and the channels she made were clean and straight. The light was low and silvered at the reed tops, warmer where the water caught the reflections.

I crossed to the middle of the plank and stood still. Underfoot the new wood felt solid, faintly warmer than the boards beside it. A moorhen moved through the reeds at the far bank, unhurried, its red bill briefly visible, then gone among the stems.

The path ahead was empty. The departure had absorbed itself into the morning without remainder.

Then footsteps behind me - steady, coming from the direction the first carrier had come from, not the direction they had gone. I stepped to one side. A second figure came onto the plank without slowing, pack across the back, eyes set toward the far bank. They crossed with purpose, gave a brief nod as they passed, and took the path.

The reed cutter's blade kept its rhythm. Cut stalks accumulated to her left. The practical work was its own kind of continuance - not the carrying away, but the maintaining: the channel kept clear, the plank renewed because someone had replaced the rotted board, the path holding because it stayed in use.

I waited until the second figure had gone from view. The moorhen appeared again briefly at the water's edge, then slipped back into the stems. The plank was just a crossing again. The reed cutter worked on with her back to it.

When I finally stepped off the far end, the new timber gave a small sound beneath my boot - a knock, the kind a well-set joint makes when it settles. I did not stop. The crossing had done what it was built for. The blade rose and fell behind me as I walked on.

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