Vidvan

i'm no man - lost to the word of god!

something between a twig snapping and the out-cry of a creature foreign. lost to the ears of the unfamiliar, lost to the ears of him in the morning blanketed in fog. steaming rivers kissing the air as if a machine, gears turning, coils igniting and an engine roaring as the rapids hiss in his ear. pitter patter, the slow leak hitting the floorboards of his concaved home. a hollowed-out tree root - not of his own doing but something before him. a gift from god, one would say, but not him. his short snout rubbed against the flexing paw, itching away the morning from his face before his lime eyes opened to see the world - which was sopping wet and he could smell the traveling seabed from the east, the moss and fish trembling for life in the fueled fire of the rapids. wide enough to slouch - shoulders brushing the top twisting roots that were nothing more than guides in the dark. his lips press firm together when he realizes his underside is wet - ever so damp the bedding of dead grasses and ferns alike had become one with the mud, and he too - a shimmering dark brown highlighting the coal black man and leaving the white crease on his leg nothing more than a darker shade of brown.

the morning sun had yet to shimmer through the few gathered trees that had spawned 20 yards off of the waterline - surrounded by brambles and the occasional wild-flower in the time that he had been there but nothing lived under the torrential rain that never seemed to stop, only lighten when the skies opened up. his body shuffled from the sopping bed frame and a sigh crossed his lip, tongue rolling his ebony lips and whitening chin before looking around as if for answers he already had. answers he did not want, answers of the sky and at his feet. it was always answered he didn't want it.

and so the renovation began in the misting spray from the heavens - out with the in and a heavy muddy bed he created in doing so. paws smothered in the wet soil - comforting yet cold and yet between the rough, calloused fingers. dragging the fallen underbrush atop a distant stone of the rapids, just far enough where the mist did not land and at that moment he settled. had he been a religious man, perhaps he pray for the sun to emerge, and when it did, he is called a prophet. he settled atop that wet stone and waited, waiting for the mid-day spring sun to emerge. bitter the air still, but he could feel the warmth in his touch of melanin and so be it - his previously new, wet underbrush should dry before him.

hours - minutes - hours.

how long had it been?

his tongue rolled his lips - dry as his gaze returned back to him. once lost beyond a stone that demanded his attention across the rivers, and back to the moment. back to that very minute that he had lost it all, and his eyes redirected to the now dry brush at his feet. perhaps not as dry as she would have liked - but thick enough to wear the bottom layer was still soft enough to absorb the shock of the cold soil. and so it was done then, maneuvering the pillows and sheets how she would prefer, for he cared not but for her appearance that was only on the back of his lids and fading - like a warped tattoo. he stood there, at the entrance of his muddied mess, and decided it only best. a shallow runoff, flood water of the types, where he undressed and let himself submerge in the frozen (a kids word), water. watching the plastered leaves and who knows what leave from his smoldered hair. a tongue taking a foul lap here and there, bath water, Rahul, it is sour for your bones. ears fell to the side with the distant cry of a familiar tone. Vidvan his lips hushed, as his head turned and ripples emerged from his shoulders from the movement. toes drifting amongst the mixture of sand and clay at his feet. in search of the companion who often made his life worse, had one ask him. "Come here, پرنده" it was harsh, and so was the furrowed brow of the dark-complexioned man until his eyes sought what they were after.

The American White Ibis came from the mist of the rapids, first its angular orange nose and the distant cry - a familiar tone is only known of dramatics for the creature who had become quite useful in his time river-side. He watched as the bird settled in the water before him, feathers shuffling and they simply stared at one another, not a word.

* Vidvan