A cool night has given way to the humidity of a tropical day. I feel the air thicken with humidity and insects as the sky breaks from a star-struck black to a warm azure. As I lay there on my back I mark the gradients of darkness. There is a noticeable distinction between the sky at my foot and at my head. At my foot the sky is that of the west, which is still darkest, and the sky to the east, which is now nearly light as the sun approaches the horizon.
I rise to my feet. My leg is healed. I cannot explain this. I haven’t the strength to question such things. I look to the darker shades of sky as I stand on the stone that was my bed. I feel the difference in temperature, the rising sun on my back, the cold of fleeing darkness on my chest. The path before me has no mountain, nor a rising on either side. I see conifer trees in the distance, further down the decline.
The mountain is west of me. My cave is west of me. My compass rock is west of me, up the decline. This small knowledge won gives me immense joy. The moon is my moon. The mountain is to the west of me. These things are true.
I wait upon my stone bed like a stone statue upon a plinth. The insects swarm and the ferns sway. I feel as though I’m in some ancient garden, some hedge maze to amuse and befuddle the guests of some absent-minded lord. I watch my shadow grow long, reaching forward through the black muck down the decline. Only when my shadow is completely swallowed by the light do I turn to face the sun.
The mountain is a jutting tooth bestride the sun. It seems a distal spur of some larger mountain, which I cannot spot through the morning haze. It’s gray and unremarkable, with limited foliage and neither condensation or character. I idly wonder how far the spur extends, and what a trip through those mountains would be like.
My leg is strong again, but my body feels weak. I will need to find water, as well as food.