The Pots on the River

Two empty pots stood beside a river after being washed. One was made of strong brass, the other of red earthenware. The afternoon water lapped quietly against the low bank.

Rain in the hills made the river rise. Water crept around the pots' bases before anyone noticed. Soon the empty pots bobbed gently away from the grass and into the current.

The brass pot drifted close to its clay neighbour. Stay beside me, it suggested. I am sturdy and can keep you company. The clay pot appreciated the friendly offer.

But the water moved them without asking. A little wave nudged the brass pot sideways. The clay pot watched its hard rim approach and gently asked for a little more space.

The brass pot promised it would never strike its friend on purpose. The clay pot believed that promise. Still, an accidental bump could crack clay even when nobody intended harm.

The clay pot explained that good intentions did not change their different materials. Whether one bumped the other or the current pushed them together, the fragile pot would take the damage.

The brass pot understood and let a widening ripple carry it farther away. They could travel along the same river without pressing side by side. Space could be a kind precaution.

Ahead, the current slowed beside a grassy curve. The clay pot drifted toward the shallow edge, and the brass pot followed at a distance. Both stayed upright as the water calmed.

They settled separately against the soft bank, safe and unbroken. A potter spotted them and carried them back to dry ground. Their unexpected river journey had ended without a single crack.

Back in the courtyard, the pots rested with room between them. They were still neighbours. Understanding a friend's limits could make a friendship safer than insisting that closeness always meant touching.