I was a figure only to be found in the rain. The places I graced were timeless, bygone to humanity.
And that life, it was gorgeous. Few places ever became my favorite, few places would ever be more than flashing scenes, the most wonderful places could be remembered wholly, and the moments would be still.
Just inland of the humid river, off a downslope to a spring, this place contained a weather-worn bridge, and the canopy of the trees stole the sky of his dry curses. The air of this place held a certain chill that could only be brought about by a rainstorm on a summer evening. Laced throughout my little hideaway where the scent of clove and reoccurring petrichor reigned. It was so odd to think, that no matter how popular the land was, this one little place would never be remembered.
Cornered by a swampland, but the air was so pure, so sweet. Hidden throughout my hideaway were everything and anything I could ever love about the place.
The ground was littered with leaves, but if I dug through just enough, I could be graced with the warm scent of wet earth. I could find beetles and grubs, if I went close enough to the spring, I'd find living treasures in the form of mice and an occasional snake, maybe a squirrel if it was feeling adventurous enough. Flowering plants like Betony had the treasure of sharp-tasting roots, at the height of the slope, I could have Juniper and peppergrass. Hanging above the spring, I could have winged sumac, and maybe even hogsberries.
If I ventured far enough under to shelves of the strong tree's roots, I'd find shelter under the native sawpalms, and I would eat their fruit, and I would take their palms and weave them into a new rain cover, or lay it on the wet ground and allow nature to overtake me.
In the bowl of a Magnolia leaf, I would lay the riches of the seedpods and offer them to my companions. I would take their hard shells, and fashion them into whistles, or grind the local herbs and use them to contain my spoils.
I would take dead moss off the ground and braid it into rope to catch the little Darters of Killifish. With the squirming fish in clasped as gently in my hand to be managed, I'd run my thumb over its scales, and in my head, it's tail would become a brush to be printed on a canvas. It'd be soundly released, as if I'd never caught it in the first place.
Like a deer, I would eat hogsberries directly off the bush, and I'd nudge the ground with my nose in search of edible grasses. Like a squirrel, I would forage for pine nuts and acorns, and I'd hide them away to never be found. In this place, I could even be a bird, finding fibers of pine and palm to lay weave into my nest. I could dip my nads in the spring and be clean of the impurities, or I could lay my face in the water and drink my fill of the aquifer.
Pressing my ear to the trunk of a tree, I'd listen to it give and take life. The mighty push and pull of a surviving ecosystem. Pressing my ear to the ground, I could hear the heartbeat of the land, like a mighty drum, it never could be swayed by the unnatural ongoings.
Leaves of the Magnolias and Oak were in hues of browns and oranges, an induction to the oncoming autumn. I'd sit on the weather-worn bridge under their watchful gaze, swaying back and forth, contemplating whichever way I would fall, for I did not mind the thought.
I claimed this place to be timeless, but it could only ever be claimed by time. I would stay here until this place would get sick of me, but never could I forget it. No matter the chills along my spine, or the fever that crossed my cheeks, as a wanderer in the rain, I truly loved this place.
No, I did not eat the fish, nor the grubs and worms. I wish I could've stuck my head in the spring, but I'm pretty sure there were leeches.