Whitebark Stream Rough Waters

silver light eddied across the taiga as if the clouds overhead had become caught in the blackcomb forest. their thinning became a faded mist, diluting color and sound so that it matched the greying of his spirit; or so he thought, whimsical even in his sorrow. the man thought he'd found a dampness in the air, a suspension, and wondered if the crushing weight of his feeling was causing the world to seem as despondent as he felt. his lethargy dragged him down more than anything; yet he made his way all the same, progress was progress.
soon he felt the first spits of rain, and as he paused to reflect upon the beautifully empty expanse around him, he noticed something else — finally, that saturated scent of water.
the bubbling of a brook. so he turned and began a more vigorous investigation of the area. when he was close enough to taste the minerality of moss-hewn stones, his tired eyes studied the river - and he saw the dark shape dancing across it. in his chest his heavy heart gave a flutter.