The night is quiet, disturbed only by the crackling of your fire and the rush of the river. The sounds of the animals are few and far between, often at a distance and half hidden by the sound of water. The fire's light tints the river and the stones beneath you a golden orange.
Your seat is a boulder, softened by a thick layer of moss. In front of you the fire burns low; you watch as it dies down, eyes drooping as it becomes mere coals aglow.
You gently lie back onto the moss. The moss is soft, the night warm, and the pounding of the river almost hypnotic in nature. Slowly you drift into sleep.