Firefly Ravine but there were no wounds

the ravine is aptly named, he would think, if he knew the natives called this place 'firefly ravine'. he does not fear the rushing throes of the river that claim most of the ravine, nor does he particularly mind the cooling sludge — muck composed of mud, moss and algae — that splashes along his bone ivory legs, against the ugly scars that hellfire left in it's wake, nor that it cakes his belly. as far as he is concerned the muck is an improvement to the terrible network of scars that ravage the left side of his body and legs. dark clouds roil in the sky above, turning like the churn of the sea's tide right before a storm, spreading wide like a protective curtain in front of the descending moon. he follows the symphony of crickets and bogfrogs; towards the thin split of gold in the cloudy horizon where the sun begins it's ascension. the fireflies wink like green sprites around him: briefly illuminating his nose where one precariously lands before it is chased off by the smoky rumble in his chest.

the humidity in the ravine is thick and soupy, curling the hairs at the nape of his neck; and as a light drizzle begins to fall from the heavens, offering a lapse of cool reprieve to the muggy ravine, geist serenades the weeping morn with his silence.