Nowhere in Particular

Awake in the tent and the smell of sleep lingers on everything. Struggle out of pit and reach for some food, but you know it won't taste as good as the hot tea by the fire last night. Outside, the ground is superficially wet from a heavy autumn dew and spongy damp underneath from light rains. The April winds have lulled for the morning birdsong and where the sun 's effervescent energy reaches through the trees to the ground the steam rises with the heady smell of forest litter. The air is cool but with no wind it hangs limp and comfortable like an old jacket that has been moulded by years of use. On the riverbank sparks of blue and red flit from crystal to crystal on the light frost, and beyond, the water chatters to the rocks as it journeys from rapid to rapid and pool to pool in search of an easier passage to the sea. The others are up now, and smoke dances around the glowing twigs of the young fire and is slowly lifted to oblivion by the heat reaching for the tree tops. Life is good and the company good, for another day's journey to nowhere in particular.

John Sullivan