The Immigrant

Having discovered my new talent, I depart from my family and forest and friends, setting off in search of people to rescue. And getting my own scrawny neck saved. Many times.

Near a police station, a bearded man with a guitar and two Arabian women give me a ride. Slowly I make my way across the map, staring in avid fascination at vagabonds camped out on border hills, fashioning houses of cards, playing grand pianos, dancing to the rhythm of giant tambourines. I am too little to be noticed. I slip between their legs and dive into a tent pitched in the hot, pink-orange sand for a day's rest from hitchhiking.
Flying over the ocean, I see the logs tumbling from a clear-cut site and falling into the river, carefully guided downstream to the mill. Two images are overlaid in my mind: the river and the crashing waves of the sea below me. As if I were gazing down at a double-exposed photograph. In confusion, I focus more strongly on the mill, and suddenly the sea is blotted out from my surroundings. Having lost the wind that propelled me, I crash noisily into the water- just as a fresh batch of logs is pushed in. It slides toward me with inexorable, ominous speed...
I scream, thinking myself doomed before I've even gone to college, when a rough hand jerks me backwards onto the bank. A hefty logger hooks me by the collar, and looking me square in the eyes, reprimands, "What on Earth were you thinkin', lettle gurl? Yeh can't just jump inteh the river loike thet! This' a dangerous place fer a childe!" he looks at me suspiciously. "How'd ya get in here, anyways?"
"I...uh..." dripping and quite shocked, I search for the answer that might satisfy curiosity. I think to myself that perhaps I have discovered a new talent- some sort of transport- but then I see the plaque over the mill entrance which reads, "Carson Mills, founded this Year of our Lord 1862"- and I know this isn't just a teleportation technique. I am traveling in time.
I look hard at the river. I can see how the soil beyond might have eroded, until this bank became the last defense against the open sea. Then I glance back at the logger. He is still waiting for an answer. "Pardon me, sir," I say in a small and breathless voice, "But could you please put me down? You're choking me..." His eyes widen, and just as he releases me, I fade out once more...into awakeness.
So much for grand travels all in one evening. Waiting for the next night to resume adventures is so unbearable...