Slither

A single water stride seems to slither on the surface of the water. Its movement doesn’t make a sound that we can hear. It’s a tree falling in the middle of the forest: an end, and a beginning, and we will never know.
Why would we care? We are not its prey. We have so much to worry about. Like our little nephew, leaning towards the river, all alone.
“Mommy,” she says, turning towards my sister just as she was about to pick her up and lecture her. “What’s that?”
A small finger points at the water stride, and our thoughts start swirling. We are all trying to remember the name, and to devise a way to explain that creature in terms that would confuse or bore a three year old.
The bug continues to dance in his private backwater scenario, never caring about us because we are not its prey.