Morning Comes

Your eyes scan a landscape lit by the grey light of dawn. The air is chilly and damp, the breeze bringing the scent of water to you. The moss beneath you is soft and damp. Before you the fire is just a heap of ashes.

The stone you sit on is in the centre of a dried up creek bed which leads down to the raging river bellow. Where the dry creek meets the river you see a calm pool, uncannily still next to the river which flows strong and fast beyond it. You walk down to the pool's edge.

The water is clear and cool. Silver fish dart beneath its surface disappearing into the churning river. Nothing separates this pool from the river, its merely out of the path of its flow.

You skirt the pools' edge until the rivers' spray dampens your clothes. The glint of the sun off the what waters holds your attention for a moment, then with a sigh you begin your long trek upstream.