One summer day I was walking on a boardwalk along an estuary. It was late afternoon. I didn't know how far it went, but it was easy walking, I felt like exploring, and it looked like it would take me away from the buildings and urban noises and into nature.
I kept walking. The vegetation got thicker and the urban noises began to fade. I started seeing more birds and colorful insects. I got to a point where there were no more buildings to be seen, but I could still hear their air conditioners. So I walked further and it got quieter and I began to hear more sounds of nature, even the water lapping.
The boardwalk ended, but a cement sidewalk continued at ground level. It started getting dark. I was alone and I became entranced with being one with nature. There was no moon or starlight--it must have been cloudy--but the sidewalk was straight and easy to follow and I had a flashlight, in case I needed it. I kept it off so as not to disrupt my solitude nor run down the battery.
Suddenly, the sidewalk ended. I stepped into wet grass, lost my balance, slipped around, got my flashlight on, but dropped it in the water. I fell into the water, too, but only got my legs and arms wet. Fortunately the flashlight floated, and I got it back, but I was beginning to panic, all alone, wet, in the dark, trying to find the cement. I made a few wrong turns and stepped into mud, but then I felt the cement, so weathered and rough, but also so solid and secure. I was so relieved to get back to something man-made and thankful for whoever put it there years ago!
I recovered myself, turned off the light, and started back towards town. It was still dark, but I could stay on the sidewalk easy enough to make my return back to civilization.
