It was chilly in there with only the occasional shaft of sunlight brightening up the glade. Moss covered the forest floor. It was green and quiet except for an annoyed squirrel and the peeping of small, unseen birds. And the trickle of water. I knelt down on the moss to take a few pictures.
It was soft and gave way beneath my knees but it was nearly crispy dry. Along Spurling Creek I could kind of understand the dryness away from the water running down the narrow valley but here it was nearly flat, the water running just a few inches below the level of the forest floor.
It was different, even, from the little creek where my battery expired the day before. There I’d found grass-of-Parnassas blossoms all fringed and pretty and shrubs heavy with red berries. There were figworts and saxifrage in the shady areas and lots of fleabane and fireweed on the edge of the forest. It was a little more open, true, so there logically would be more floral variety. But the moss was wet there. Well, damp at least.
Here, where it should be, it wasn’t.