It's the trees that bring me back, of
course. Not the talking, I've gotten used to that. Mockery and
derision is easy to ignore when you know it's only your own head
talking to you by grabbing the trees and beating them together.
I shake my head. No, the talking isn't
what does it, it's the dripping. The fog has congealed enough for a
little mist to form on the leaves. Just enough for the smaller
leaves up top to drip slightly down to the larger leaves. Drinking
water that hasn't been scooped out of the rock sounds strangely
enticing, right now.
I stand under the increasing streams in
a place where several leaves converge. It's enough to bathe under,
not just drink. I don't know why this feels so good, or how it's
really happening, but it is good. I take some of the bark and small
branches on the ground and start scrubbing. I haven't really gotten
dirty here, but it feels good to peel away whatever is there, even if
it's skin.
The sort-of-rain doesn't last all that
long, but it is refreshing. Totally unlike anything that's happened
here, alien, unknown. But familiar, too. I think I've done this
before, some time. I think it was good then, too. When it drifts to
a stop, it is almost as good, like a starting point has been crossed.
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