by James Moran
the Swiss water Peru decaf at Philz coffee
He knew he was blind, but he couldn’t remember his own name. Judging by the sounds and the damp leaves upon which he sat he was surely deep in the woods. Had he fallen and hit his head?
A sense of urgency seized him. He crawled for a while, then stood with his arms outstretched to navigate toward the sound of water and away from whatever it was he was sensing. Why he went toward the water was simple: the sound of water gathered his focus.
He found a rivulet, then like a thread leading to a rope, the rivulet brought him to a river, which he followed upstream to a waterfall. He scrambled over wet boulders, finding purchase more with his hands than his feet. Soon he sought a space behind the waterfall that was large enough to sit in with his knees hugged close.
Whatever hunted him most likely wouldn’t smell or see him here. And if it did catch scent or sight of him he wouldn’t hear its approach above the din of crashing water until it was too late, which was perhaps the best advantage.
So he waited and wondered if that which he hid from would arrive before the memory of it arrived, and if the two weren’t actually the same, and if that which he hid from wasn’t actually already right there hiding with him.