Naked, but not cold, I stood by the side of a lake and grinned at the beaver that stared curiously back at me. I swam - quick, unprofessional strokes, hampered by my happy laughter - then settled in the water, floating and watching the birds above as they wished the Sun good afternoon. The breeze rippling the water's surface made me shiver, reminding me that January doesn't often pair well with an outdoor swim. Rushes grew all 'round the edge; I waded easily through the silt and water toward the shore. The air was chilly, but this only made me more glad for the maroon towel I'd left on the bank. A brisk rub down got the water off and left me glowingly warmed.
I played wood sprite - dancing along the shore, singing with the birds, curling up on felled trees, and watching as the beaver resumed his patrol. I didn't want to leave, didn't want to pick up the burdens I must carry. Everything of society was packed in a little bag that I'd left under that tree - only my towel and the litter that makes it even to such secluded spaces murmured vaguely of humanity, technology, and normal life.
All things must end (though none need be forgotten) and time saw me clothed, shod, and strolling back to my little apartment, but on my heart's wall a mural had been painted. There was a little lake, a few hundred trees, goldfinches on twigs so slim a breath should snap them, and a lazy, belligerent beaver, slapping the water into geysers - a demigod if ever there was one (or so he heartily believed).
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