The Melt

December did not call him out to the creek, it was a prod from a walking god whose legs had grown stiff. The softening stream is smoky, a recuperating sun is unlocking the frozen, slivers and floes jostle to be one with the melt and miasma. He watched water rats playing tag with each other’s tails. He had argued with her and was kicking around a grievance. Peevishly he lobed small stones at the rats; they dived into the banks for cover but soon come out again to enjoy the spate of the stream. Water rats seem immune to prolonged caution and fear, maybe they are as forgetful as goldfish or simply habituated to risk. It was then that he knew that he had to go home and apologize, mend what was broken, hold her close until she melted and flowed again.