Moss-covered stones so long and flat that I could curl up on them. And rest.
Would I wake with moss growing in my hair?
Falling leaves collect in my lap while water bugs run along the surface of a pond. Ripples echo behind them; in front of them. The scent of warm water and decaying foliage almost dull the car exhaust and recycling bins.
Is it a reservoir? A hidden spring? Do the students and staff have a name for it that I’ll likely never learn?
A babbling brook. Chuckling crows. Cars growling along the freeway just out of sight.
An oasis on campus, and I’m alone. When I do see people, they’re just passing through – marching toward a meeting or a class or a carpark. All adorned with red staff lanyards.
Trees hang over the water. They bend and stretch and reach, but they won’t touch the water yet. Buttresses rise up and hold the stooping trunks aloft. Man-harvested wood from miles away protects.
If I focus on the pond, I don’t have to see the dull grey-white faculty building staring at me through the leaves.
Three students come. Babbling louder than any brook. I think they might be seeking a place to sit and break open their store-bought bentos. But they’re just passing through. Stepping carelessly over moss-covered stones.
Their voices don’t even linger.
PS – I love writing and I love eating! If you want to help with the latter (and ONLY if you want) you can maybe buy me a coffee? 🙂