The sun’s finished rising. The air is thick with humidity, stale from the excesses of CO2. As I wander down the decline, I see conifer trees through the mist. I tread over pine cones the size of my hand. There are short, stumpy trees, barrel-like in the trunk with fronds of evergreen leaves. The trees grow dense and wild among the ferns. The air is thick with mayflies. This suggests that water is near.
The canopy is still relatively light when I hit the water. It’s not a true lake or river. The runoff from the humidity and the mountains has pooled over the ferns and the mud to a marsh. Mosquitoes and mayflies swarm around my exposed skin. There are horsetails in the water.
I cup the water in my hands and have a drink. It is filthy, but it is water. I sip it slowly, only a mouthful in my hands. There is no clean water here. That much is obvious. I could always rely on rain, but that will take time to develop. For now, we drink like any animal at the watering hole.
Animals. Yes, there is some form of life here. I see it moving below the surface of the water. If this is not a true body of water, it is unlikely that fish are what live there.
I withdraw carefully from the pool. All things thirst, and so we all are drawn to water. The silence adopts a character of menace. What was moving beneath the water has turned towards me. I see it rippling beneath the surface of the water.
My hand finds a stone. It’s heavy and sharp at one end. The ripples are nearly upon me now.