When I step closer to the rapids, the moss here greets me first. Not all moss grows in silence — some thrive in fog and spray. This moss isn’t the same as the one you see in the woodland. This has been moistened by the foaming splash and mist of late summer nights. There isn’t ever silence — constant rush and rumble.
Raindrops blend with the splashing water. My jacket repels water — sends it back to the humid air where it continues its journey towards the ground, where it soaks into the deep green moss. I keep walking toward the big pile of rocks, which all have mossy jackets — not water repellent, more like water-sucking. Stones are slippery and the moss is a lifesaving grip to step on. The mosses are competing for who’s the king of the hill, who climbs to the top?
Trumpet cup lichens are having fun, tossing pebbles into the rapids, giggling with excitement. They cheer each other on. Some dream of conquering the rocks above, while others are content just to cling and watch the water rush by.
The rapids roar louder, but the lichens don’t mind — this is their time. They will retreat when the snow comes, into the moist organic matter on top of the stone they stand on — emerging again next spring when the time and conditions are right.
Trees are wearing green socks. It’s like we humans have rubber boots, the trees have mossy damp socks to keep their feet warm. The most fashionable trees have orange licheny tights. It probably looks comical when they jump over the mossy rocks, shimmying like wobbly cupcakes. Shame I won’t see that. They stay still while we are around.
One toad keeps out of the rain under a rock. Like it weren’t already as damp as a wet sock forgotten in a puddle. It watches me distrustfully for a while, then boings through the mossy rocks and disappears into a dark hollow guarded by an ominous spider.
Gaps between the stones in this rock pile are dark, wettish, and timeworn voices speak with a gurgling voice, as if someone were uttering short words through water.
The hollows create a series of joined tunnels. No one (except the toad) knows where they lead. Even the spider hasn’t gone in. It’s scared of the wetness and the whispers of the underground world.
But who’s in charge here? Who is the leader, the sheriff, the goddess of this mossy kingdom?
It’s the lonely and only, gnarly scaly dog pelt lichen! She holds the power. She holds the reins of this mossy domain. And she nestles here in the middle of the moss. She has one dream: she wants to be green.
She dreams of blending in, of becoming a carpet of emerald green, soft and inviting. Every drop of rain, every splash from the rapids, is a step closer to her goal. Sometimes, she stretches, letting the humid air caress over her scales, imagining herself a tiny mossy hill among the rocks. And when the sunlight hits just right, she shimmers slightly — almost green, almost victorious, almost ready to join the kingdom of mossy socks and licheny tights.
Did you enjoy seeing nature come alive? Click the cup with the water lily peeking out, and you’ll find more posts from the Enchanted Stories series.
A delight to read and experience alongside you Anna 💚🌿
This is a fantastic fairytale of The Moss Anna😍🌟 You should make a book 😊