Cliff Sightings

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It has been two hours since dawn, and another hour since Finn woke from a dream. He recalls a faded scene from it: he has broken a large vase, and water cascaded and escaped. He soon woke and brushed the dream away.

He is going to bathe, as the water often washes his lingering thoughts away. The tightened lace men's shirt is being tugged by Finn. However, the strings become undone only slowly. He takes off his shoes, stashes away his toolbox by a birch tree. The air is crisp today, and the morning mist has only started to descend in the town.

He suddenly had an urge to climb atop of the mounds, where he would view not only the town, no, but the lake beneath him. The morning quietude aches for Finn's arrival; it aches for someone to intrude. His bare feet carry him skyward. 

The skies are dimly overcast— he feels tipsy and dreary already. He sits upon a cliff— a small cliff— not enough to cause fright. Below him is an open lake that mirrored the world above. Runlets drip from the moss-covered heights, the wind is piercing up on the cliff but there are still birds fluttering overhead. The trees meet where the boulders end. He inches close to the edge, looking past the body of water and the vegetation— the heavens breath heavily onto him. His feet hang off the edge and his hand brushes upon the granite as if he is feeling the age of the Earth. What is lyricism other than this moment? Lingering echoes from the distant millhouses float in the air. 

He leaps from the edge into the water. 

The air sings with instrumental tunes and everything plunges into the depths. A few speckled pebbles fly in behind him, but that is all— he does not interfere with the scene— he just suddenly disappear from it. Escaping, forlornly, reliving his imagination is an act that this story encompasses. At once, he is alive and drowning.

Beneath the placid surface of the lake, even the minuscule amount of ripples cease to tremble. Around the boy's figure flutter small luminescent bubbles, glittering as the dashing sun gleams over the body of water. The descending figure's body was caught in flowing motion; time glosses his heaving chest.  From above, faint melodies pour into the fragrant lake. If one did not listen carefully, one may mistake it for the midsummer rampage of birdsongs—but it was not—it was an otherworldly tune.

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