The Footprint Pool
"Where does the warm rain go when it stops?" Sam asked. Bram shook the water from his striped face. Bram shook again, and the drops flew. The last drops slid off the fern tips. Plip. Plip. Sam held out both hands and caught one. The clouds were sliding away over the ridge, slow and grey. The whole valley smelled of wet moss and warm stone. "Listen — the ferns are dripping again," Sam said. Bram sat down beside them to listen too.
They followed the sound down the muddy slope. There, at the bottom, was a footprint bigger than Sam. It had three toes, deep and round. The rain had filled it right to the brim. The water held the whole evening sky inside it. Pink, gold, and one early star. Sam knelt at the edge without touching it. The mud was warm under their knees. Bram leaned his broad shoulder against their arm. A fern let go of one more drop. Plip. The sky wobbled, then came back together.
Sam picked a fern leaf and set it on the water. It floated like a small green boat. Bram breathed on it and it sailed across. Sam watched it cross and touch the far side. A snail rode along the rim, slow as Bram. A dragonfly landed, rested, and lifted away again. Bram's stripes shone in the last of the light. Sam laughed very quietly, so nothing would be startled. Plip, said the ferns behind them. The star in the water stayed exactly where it was.
Something huge came walking through the ferns. Its feet made the ground hum. A long neck dipped down beside them. The big dinosaur drank, and the pool rocked like a bowl. Sam kept still. Bram kept still. The neck lifted, dripping, and swung away into the trees. Ferns closed over the place where it had been. Plip, plip, plip went the drops from its mouth. Then the water settled and the star came back. Sam let out the breath they had been holding.
Later, Sam saw that the edge of the water had moved. The pool was smaller. The mud was drinking it. Sam scooped water in a curled leaf and poured it in. The leaf shook and most of it spilled. The mud drank that too. Sam tried again, slower, with two leaves. The pool went on getting smaller, quietly, the way evening does. "Listen — the ferns are dripping again," Sam said. Bram put his chin on the mud beside them.
So Sam stopped pouring and sat down to watch instead. There was still a strip of water, thin as a ribbon. The snail was in it. Sam lifted the snail with a leaf. Sam set it on the wet moss under the ferns. The snail waved its small horns, then went on. Then they moved the fern boat there too. Bram nosed a little channel so the last water ran to the moss. Plip, said a fern above them.
The last of the sky-water sank into the dark mud. The footprint shone for a moment, then went soft and brown. "Goodnight, puddle," Sam said, and patted the mud edge. Bram was looking up, past Sam, at the far ridge. New clouds were coming, low and grey and heavy. Far away, the sky rumbled softly, like a sleeping thing. Warm rain was folded inside them, waiting for morning. Sam watched them come and yawned a wide yawn.
They made a nest in the ferns, close to the print. Bram pushed the fronds into a warm heap. The heap smelled green and sweet. Sam pressed the mud flat with one hand, ready. Tomorrow the rain would fill the footprint again. Tomorrow the star would come back to the water. Bram tucked his nose under his paw. The first drop of the new rain touched the ferns. Plip. Sam smiled with their eyes shut.
The rain came soft and warm on the leaves above. Above them the leaves ticked with rain. None of it reached them under the fronds. Bram's fur was warm against their cheek. Bram's side went up and down, up and down. Sam's breathing slowed until it matched his. "Listen — the ferns are dripping again," Sam whispered. The valley breathed in. The valley breathed out. Plip. Then Sam was asleep.
