Rain and Reeds

Turtles

It had been a calm day for the painted turtles, as usual. The ruckus of the mink pursuit had not stirred them. Their little red eyes had remained studious as the ducklings shot towards the line of Sitka spruces, their wings whipping waves. The log on which the turtles sunned themselves bobbed in the disruption. They withdrew their heads until it was over, and slid from the log and into the silt that lined the bottom of the pond. There they fed and cooled, rising to the surface every now and then to regulate their temperatures.

The painted turtles were a harmonious species, their lifestyles the definition of neutral. They never spoke to each other and never had any opinions. When things elevated too much, they would pull back into their shells.

And now night had settled over the marshland. The cattails murmured and the spruces creaked. The moon was bright, the sky clear. The mourning heron stood wing-deep in the water. This was what the turtles loved--a quiet night, still water, the occasional comforting whisper from the reeds. Bleary-eyed, they tucked themselves in and were enveloped by musty warmth.

Worms of light seeping through the cave's mouth. Pixelated shadows. This the turtles saw.

Dark muffled cave. Sleep. Pillowed in hard black velvet. Quiet. Serene. Epitome of calm. Rain pitting the water outside, sending ripples throughout the air. Solace. This the turtles felt.