Sit, Float, Play

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.