Morning After a Rain

She had always enjoyed the morning after a rain. The thick foliage hung brilliantly green, rejuvenated from the long awaited rain. The morning was early, and the sun was not asleep, but was not yet bright enough to shake the clouds and heavy fog. She looked around in silent appreciation of the damp woods, breathing in air thick with humidity.

The animals watched her carefully, warily. She unsettled them, but then again, so did anyone that came through these parts. She stood, dark hair swinging gently as she moved. She walked amongst the dark trees, her steps as light as a breath of wind. The wildlife simultaneously tensed, but she moved on, and the relief was evident. They feared her, as much as they needed her. She had always been kind to them.

Heavy footfalls of a loan hiker echoed in the otherwise silent habitat. He brought with him the synthetic smell of factories, disturbing the delicate aroma of the woods. His feet carelessly scattered piles of humus and litter, untouched by man. His heavy wooden hiking staff pierced the ground, making small circles in the dirt. They would not disappear for a long time.

She watched him, eyes narrowed. She could feel what he felt, think what he thought. There would be more. Taking what was so rightfully hers.

He spoke into a piece of plastic, his voice reverberating grotesquely in the placid, balanced woods. His sharp words sliced into the soft underbelly of the comfortable hum of forest sounds. Her delicate, angular features pinched at the sound of his terrible voice.

He stopped, throwing down a bag. He began to gather small sticks from the ground. She watched, and nearly gasped audibly when he pulled a hatchet from his belt and began to chop limbs from nearby trees. He arranged his stolen wood into a small pyramid. He took a small rectangle from his pocket, and to her amazement and disgust, produced a small red flame from his fingertips. Fire is the death of a forest. Her eyes danced with a different kind of flame, her lips curling back to reveal sharp teeth. She sprinted to a hiding place, and she waited.

The man pushed himself off the ground heavily, and he stumped to the river. He plunged his filthy, toxic hands into the water and rinsed his face. He began filling a pail, but suddenly, on the other side of the river, there was a woman. His eyes widened. She wore no clothes. Her skin was smooth, and so pale it reflected the green of the forest. He could almost see veins, green as a leaf's, pulsating under her translucent skin. Her hair was dark, dark brown and was cut to her shoulders. Her figure was curvaceous and pleasing. He thought lustful, hungry thoughts as he gaped at this woman, beautiful in a manner that he had never before seen. He wanted her, desperately. She beckoned him with a single long, slender finger. Though she was all the way across the water, he could see her, could imagine what it would feel like to run his fingers across her soft skin. He ogled, surprised at her beckoning. He watched, captivated in her gaze. She motioned for him again. He stepped out into the churning, white water, his body pulled toward her by her eyes, black and glossy as oil.

The forest was her friend. The river was even kind enough to carry him away.