Day 337: As the dry season comes to an end, tiny Calypso Creek threads its way through Longmire Campground with but a memory of springtime's orchids dancing along its margins. Its hearty May chuckle has matured into a demure smile not unlike that of the Mona Lisa; a secret is at the heart of the matter, one which leaves us guessing. It winds among mossy rocks, playing the coquette, tapping stick and stone upon the shoulder, running quickly to hide around the next turn. Somewhere along its length, a frog calls, a sound stilled by the softest footfall. Beetles cross its width on fragile twigs and burrow themselves deeply in lichen, safe after a perilous passage. It speaks in color: green, green, green, and in so many tones they could not be counted. Calypso is the life of this small and intimate forest, its integrity, and soon the rains will come and set its heartbeat pulsing young and strong again.
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