The
rock blinked, as rocks tend to do.
It
was spring, technically. But it was so early spring that that the
harsh winter wind was still whipping along the surface of the ground,
beating against the purple stone and flowing around his two grey
stripes. Today he decided to do what most stones do: watch. The world
around it, not much more than a collection of hills, the occasional
tree, and a string of far-off mountains, all seemed anxious today.
They were under the spell of this wicked wind that hinted at a
seductive new season which would breathe green life into the valley
once again. Anticipation, the rock concluded, was in the air. Well,
not just in
the
air, but it was actually the
air.
The
stone had no idea how long it had been where it was or where it came
from, and at the moment had no particular desire to care. It’s not
that it didn’t have the time to remember—it had plenty of that.
The stone just knew he was where he was, which was in exactly the
same predicament (or rather complete lack thereof) as everything else
around him. There was so much to look at, so much to witness as the
world simply churned onward in the relatively still valley. It didn’t
really matter so much what happened—sometimes the winters were
long, sometimes the springs were short, and sometimes life was just
like all the other times. But one thing stayed the same, and that was
that the rock watched and thought about the world. You could say that
he took joy in the nature of nature and his nature. He was constantly
tossing around observations across the surface of his mind. Ideas and
thoughts rippling out, like what a person might do after picking up a
smooth stone at a lake’s edge. Skip,
skip, skip,
making elegant ripples
across
the glassy reaches.
Before
long it was summer, and with it came the heat. To the stone, this
warmth made the world feel still, but in a very full and rich way.
The rock shivered to think of the emptiness that the approaching
winter would bring. There would be no grass or flowers in bloom to
watch then. Just the wind, taking a joyride up and down the valley.
It’s as if it didn’t even care for anything but its own
amusement.
The
heat, though, posed its own problem. Grass fires were over quickly,
we’re temporarily uncomfortable, and watching a fire unfold was a
mesmerizing display of destruction. But the stone feared for it’s
closest neighbour, the tree, who surely must find such things
absolutely terrifying.
The
stone knew he had little to fear and that all things were temporary,
but the tree was a much younger being living a much more delicate
lifestyle. It depended on the rain and the wind and the warmth, any
of which could pose a problem. The rock admired the tree’s
staggering height and could only imagine what he could see from up
there and the knowledge that awaited anyone of such stature. But more
than anything, the purple stone was jealous of how the tree would
waltz and dance with the wind. To have that sort of freedom would be
truly incredible.
The
rock blinked, and it was almost autumn. As if triggered by his own
ponderings, the wind shifted, now with a faint hint of cool change on
its warm breath. Along with it came the grey clouds, heavy with rain.
The
tree will love this,
the stone knew. He watched as the downpour started far up the valley,
and swept down as a large dark curtain that blurred out the
background. The rain was warm, and the blustery moment, in its own
very brief way, was most incredible.
But
the wind and clouds had conspired to blow in much more than some late
summer showers. There were brilliant strokes of lightning. Not warm
and illuminating like the sun’s rays, but instantaneously there and
gone. Like fractures in the sky, the lightning jabbed at the ground
below. Nearer, nearer. Brighter, brighter. The rock watched many
storms before, and was very well acquainted with these violent surges
of light.
You
can never become comfortable with the feeling of a close strike. It’s
like an invisible force that drives down into the tiniest cells of
your geology and simultaneously tries to push itself out. And this is
precisely what the rock felt just happen.
Except
that never before had this brought darkness with it. Suddenly, the
stone couldn’t see a thing and he was fairly certain he was not
blinking either. This was most peculiar indeed. The purple rock
concluded that his dear neighbour, the tree, had been on the
receiving end of this particular lightning strike, and it seems as
though a branch had fallen on top of him, blocking out his entire
view.
And
as a creature who watches the world, he found this quite troubling.
---
The
leaf found himself decidedly not
hanging
at the height he was accustomed to. One moment ago he was on the
branch where he grew up and basking in the warm summer downpour. And
while that’s where he still was, it seemed that with a sudden and
bright ferocity the branch had taken a bit of a fall to the base of
their large tree, resting on top of a rock.
The
leaf found this all rather worrisome. He missed the days of seeing
the world from higher up in the tree, and was apprehensive about what
life would be like now. He wasn’t fond of being so close to the
ground, and it could already feel that its usual flow of sustenance
was tapering off.
For
a few days the leaf could feel its stem weaken and whither, which
brought on more new anxieties. And one evening, the leaf shuddered as
a cool wind approached, plowing down the valley like a tidal wave. It
coursed around him harder and harder, until he was ripped clean off
his branch and thrust into the sky.
And
as the night wore on, the leaf closed his eyes, not wanting to look
as the wind beat and blew him around. On occasion he’d be set down
on the ground just long to feel a sense of relief, before being
whisked away again. It was like a cruel joke, and it didn’t take
long to become desensitized to these pauses. He’d look around at
his new surroundings yet refuse to feel at rest, as he knew he could
be pulled skyward at any second. He worried about where he would go
and where he would end up, not knowing what the wind had in store for
him.
Eventually,
though, the leaf learned to take great pleasure in flight. Sure, it
was always unsettling that he wasn’t in control of his destinations
or tumblings, but there was a pleasure to be had in soaring far above
the landscape, and gliding on an invisible cushion of air. By this
time, of course, his colours had long faded away from the once rich
green to a pale yellow. He didn’t have much flexibility left, and
was stuck with the same bent posture as he tumbled along the breeze.
The most concerning thing was how his edges were starting to fray and
chip away. Landings became particularly unpleasant, with flakes that
would snap off with surprising ease and blow away on their own
journey.
But
he came to cherish this uncontrollable voyage, and he loved the
journey for the journey’s sake. He saw mountains and gullies he had
never known, and their magnificence was somehow amplified through his
twisting in the air. He knew his form was imperfect and the time he
had left was not infinite, but the beauty in the moment was
undeniable. He wasn’t sure if either the future was coming towards
him or if he was flying towards it, and he wasn’t sure what that
end-point entailed and what would be waiting for him there. He didn’t
know what other colours he might change to, or even if
there
were other colours he could
change
to. All there was for him was floating. And watching. And waiting for
whatever for the next destination, wherever it may be.
And
so it was that the sun rose and set many times over, and just before
the next rise the wind seemed to taper off in the darkness. The leaf
drifted downwards, but instead of coming to rest on a bed of grass or
loose gravel he touched down on a wavy and flowing mirror that
reflected the very sky he was borne from. And with two silent ripples
the leaf was gently caught by a stream. The cool morning water was
alien at first, and then oddly relaxing. And so the leaf sat perched
on the surface of the water as it continued its journey downstream.
The question of where it would lead to was rather disconcerting, but
the leaf knew he would find out the answer either soon enough or
eventually. So faded, cracked and brown, the leaf floated onwards.
---
It
had been a long night. For all of the scritching and scratching and
sniffing at the dirt, there was a surprising lack of ants to be found
at this bend in the creek. Yesterday and the day before they had
proved to be plentiful, but the hottest week of summer seemed to be
burned into the armadillo’s memory, when there didn’t seem to be
any ants at all. He got very hungry that week and looked everywhere
for
food. He even checked a little bit upstream and
downstream
from his den to no avail. It was a most trying time, and he vowed
it’d never happen again. So every night, he scoured around the bend
in the creek with renewed vigor. It was tiring work, but being well
fed always is.
Being
well hydrated, however, was pretty simple (and this is why he was so
happy with his burrow near the bend in the creek). It bothered him
that there wasn’t much food to be found, but decided to at least
alleviate his thirst. He scampered through the grass, and paused
briefly before hopping down the short embankment of soft soil that
led to the stream of water, where he walked in up to his front paws
and drank. It probably tasted good, but the critter was preoccupied.
He
was in the middle of realizing that it was nowhere near as hot as the
hottest week of summer and that he should
be
able to find ants (even though he was having problems finding ants),
when an unanticipated movement caught his intention. He jerked and
almost curled up in reflex. He’d never been surprised here before,
so he concluded that whatever it was probably couldn’t be good. He
focused his blurry eyes to find that it was just a rather
weathered-looking leaf floating downstream. He knew that had it been
a Bad Thing, that Bad Thing would have certainly been close enough to
do something Bad before he would’ve noticed. He made a resolution
to be more careful in the future as he unfurled himself to saunter
back to the safety of his burrow.
A
trip back to his nest was not far, technically, but he’d have to
walk on the ground the entire distance between where he was and where
he wanted to be. Ground that, perhaps, was home to a certain
six-legged and oh-so-delicious snacks. As tired as he was after his
long night, his nose was inevitably pulled to the ground as he
started sniffing his way back. He’d pause and dig and pause and
dig, but only be occasionally rewarded for his expert meandering
skills. But he knew he had to get whatever food he could, lest he
find there was nothing left to be got.
He
was practically on the doorstep of his hole in the ground (a
'holestep', if you will), when he looked up from yet another
uninspiring patch of dirt, jumped in the air, and landed wrapped up
in a tidy ball. It was quite an impressive feat to witness, as the
quietly sitting fox could attest to.
A
moment passed. The armadillo wondered what it was, exactly, that he
saw. In a moment of self-evaluation, he was pretty sure that he was
no longer at the creek and so it most likely was not a floating leaf
that was watching him on his search for a meal. Confused by the
stillness, the armadillo unfurled ever-so-slightly to peer out at the
red and white furry creature. And in exact correspondence to the
amount the critter unfurled, the fox seemed to tilt its head to the
right in curiosity. The armadillo balled up again after noticing he
was still indeed being watched by the sitting animal. He thought the
fox looked confused. The armadillo decided it was rather confused,
too. Was the fox confused at his own confusion, perhaps? What was
going on?
The
armadillo was still in his ball, trying to sort out what was going on
when he heard the fox draw near and start sniffing. This was how
armadillos like himself found ants… While he was pretty sure that
he wasn’t, in fact, a delicious ant, he began to wonder if he was
food
for this creature.
He
balled up tighter.
Nothing
happened.
He
stayed balled up.
More
nothing happened.
The
armadillo’s mind wandered to his burrow, knowing it was close by.
He slowly opened up again, to find a smiling fox expectantly standing
before him. As soon as they made eye contact, the fox lowered his
head to the ground, leaving his tail wagging in the air. The fox
chirped and hopped to the left, all the while watching the armadillo.
He
finished unfurling and watched as the fox hopped around twice more,
never turning away. At one point, it hopped forward and nudged the
armadillo with its nose, causing the armoured creature to flinch and
hop backwards. Figuring that any momentum is good momentum, he
scuttled away into his burrow as fast as his tiny feet would take
him.
He
reached the deepest, farthest-back spot of his shallow hole and
waited. The fox peered in, and once again they locked eyes. But
instead of a toothy snarl, he saw a rather goofy looking grin. He
noted how terrible
that
tongue must be for slurping up ants. But the fox just waited with its
grin, and barked again. It backed up a few paces, and sat down so
that it could barely
maintain
eye contact. It’s head tilted to the left and let out another yip.
The
armadillo figured that he was well within reach of the foxe’s
impressively long arms and that while home may be comforting, it
isn’t that
comforting
when you have unexpected guests that can barge in at any moment with
their many teeth. If the red animal was hungry, he wouldn’t have
waited this long. And if it was truly as goofy as the armadillo
expected, it would have gotten bored and left by now.
So
he gathered up his courage and his leathery armour (which was always
on his back anyways), he slowly started to climb out to greet the
stranger. On his way out, he remembered times when he found ants to
eat. Those were good times. He missed those times.
The
fox yipped with joy and danced around at the sight of the decidedly
un-balled armadillo. It nudged him with its nose and wagged its bushy
tail. And with that, they spontaneously started cashing around each
other. The fox would dart one way, and the armadillo would scuttle
after. As the creek babbled on and the grass swayed, the two hopped
back and forth in the orange light of dawn. But when the armadillo
realized he’d now wandered farther away from his den than ever
before (which was not that far), he paused and peered homeward. The
fox gave an inviting yip, motioning in the opposite direction.
Once,
some time ago, the armadillo found a colony of ants nested in a log
near the bend in the creek. And oddly enough, chasing after this red,
fuzzy interloper seemed to be much more exciting and
fun
than that discovery. And even though it was far past his bedtime, he
concluded that new burrows could be dug wherever he went. With that,
he set off after his new companion, not quite sure where he was going
or what to expect. But it’d probably be exciting. And maybe there
would be a few ants along the way, too.
