How the last storm left me here remains a mystery, one that I reflect on as as I desiccate in the evening sun, not even shade for the local snake, though occasional perch for a twitching lizard with blue stripes on a tail ever-poised to fall off. A growing colony of termites find some respite in the thin cool strip where underbelly meets the ground, drawing moisture up from untold depths, likely reaching unseen the hundred yards to the gentle lap of a settled lake. The wind, the rain, and the occasional stepping foot bring a gentle change now and again, but none so strong as to alter the inexorable decay, the slow movement downward that marks the seasons, if not days, of my life.
From another view, I look a little different.
Add some distance, perhaps a little less light or focus, and I become the crumbling maw of a lost baleen whale, the largest of the large dining on the smallest of the small, providing, in turn, another dinner on another day for the very small.