The Thing That Lives In The Mud

The thing that lives in the mud sits quietly, fingers spread wide, awaiting the faint vibration of footsteps approaching from the path that leads from the tree-line to the shore. It is patient and it is selective. The thing can go very long without feeding. It can and does eat anything from branches to coyotes but it prefers children and is more than willing to wait. The thing that lives in the mud sits quietly.

The thing that lives in the mud is lonely. It was once part of a rich community of things that lived in the mud. They would share their kills and rest in solemn togetherness, wordlessly acknowledging that it was indeed good to not be alone. Not be lonely. But that was a long time ago and now the thing that lives in the mud is lonely.

The thing that lives in the mud is old. And though it has never seen its own face, it knows by the feel that time has left her marks. Deep ridges line its face from chin to ears. They fill with mud and debris. They widen with time. It remembers love, fresh and young, rare as a swamp trillium bloom. The thing spreads itself shallow on the mud-flat and listens to the night, remembering the soft goodness that accompanied love. The optimism, the way time stood still seemingly forever. But time did not sit still forever. It moved on, and with it moved love. And now the thing that lives in the mud is old.

The thing that lives in the mud is distrustful. Something has taken up residence nearby. Something else that would live in the mud. The thing lashes out angrily, snorts and roars for the first time in ages, announcing its territorial dominion over the mud in which it lives. But the other thing does not flee, rather, moves in closer, emitting a soft rattle, calming as a cat's purr. It wishes to share this mud. To no longer be alone in the eternal dusk. But the thing slashes out with its mighty claws over and over until this other thing goes silent. It nudges at the other thing until it is convinces that it poses no mare threat. The thing that lives in the mud is distrustful.

The thing that lives in the mud pulls this other thing which briefly lived in the mud across itself like a soft blanket and pushes all thoughts from its ancient mind, confident that it well never again feel loss. Not if it has a say in the matter. It pulls a single swamp trillium bloom and chews on it thoughtlessly.