Waterbug's Trysting

It was the hour between three and four a.m., the deepest, darkest time of the night. A fog had rolled in around midnight, blanketing out the stars, and only the amber glow of the street lights at the edge of the river park spun globes of golden fog that were isolated and alone in the purple darkness. Waterbug loved the Nights of Purple Darkness and so she would slip out from the Beyond and Between and come here to the river park and sit at the botton of a young redwood and just watch the night. The young redwood was always talkative for the first hour or so, chattering about those things that dazzle young trees - the thousand tastes of water, the hundred slants of sunlight, the buzzing insects and the doings of the birds and the beasties that lived and loved within it's limbs. Sometimes the urban pagans would come and dance among the trees and chant and sing. Waterbug watched them with a certain gleeful amusement when the did, for what they lacked in grace and ritual they made up in fevered lust. The Old One's mostly slept these days. Indeed, though Waterbug herself had seen the turn of centuries, as far as she could recall all the Old One's ever did was sleep. Sometimes Miriam's Little Fox would slip out of the darkness and sit with Waterbug and watch the Purple Night. Tonight was one of those nights. Though they had talked, it was rare. Usually he would just slip out of the fog, a flash of silver on his coat, and sit next to her for an hour or so, watching the night. When dawn approached and the subtle shades of the Purple Night faded they would linger. Sometimes she would curl against Miriam's Little Fox, resting her head on the curve of his side, listening to his heart beat. Other times, he would lay sprawled out, his head in her lap as she playfully ran her fingers through his hair. When dawn approached they would play one last game. Whoever sprawled on who would leap up and spin around. The other would wink three times. Whoever was fastest, at spinning or winking, would be the layee next time they met. Miriam's Little Fox could spin in a fog lit blur, but Waterbug could wink three times in, well, a blink. Then they would vanish into the respective worlds until the next Purple Night, leaving the young redwood to chuckle at the follies of foxes and waterbugs. Tonight was no different. The night turned and the purple faded and in the wink of a waterbug and the spin of a fox they were gone. All they left behind was a memory and the most important gift of all. An abiding love of Purple Nights, a young redwood, and each other. Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T