Slug-like it lay, abandoned and bereft on the beaten track. Smudges of dirt and small tears, a musky scent of sweat, earth and alcohol traced it’s passage of time and usage. Having grown weary, its inhabitant was long gone; headed up-stream, he had followed the river, and the path of the sun.
The fresh murmur of running water as it forged its way through the contours of the land in a quiet yet purposeful manner, feathered wings beating unperturbed through the heavy air, a distant fire crackling as it churned out warmth and vibrancy, foliage reverberating underfoot as twig cracked and soil displaced. These elements were proof of a never-ending eb and flow, of an existence that was neither judgmental nor affirming, and it, lay snugly and pertinently in the midst of its surrounds.
Even as its shape contorted and its substance reduced, it remained evidence of life as it was, and life as it was predestined. For its creation resulted from a history which would not be undone, and its calm and un-scrutinized decay echoed a natural order which could not be damaged or changed, for it was change, and it was all encompassing.
As time ran on and the days ran short, the ground began to consume it. The traces of its inhabitant were gently cleansed by damp air and the roughness of the earth as it sifted, occasionally distorted by an animal, which continued with its activities with all of the purpose it could muster and yet, contrarily, with no purpose at all. Eventually, it was hardly recognisable as its original construct, as it had been separated into a collection of raw materials, which in themselves were undistinguished.
All at once, its identity was entirely engulfed, its components re-distributed. Its past was only gleaned by earthworms and those who trod unknowingly across its remains.