Purpose or food

He knew no purpose to it all, let alone for himself. Nothing changed while everything transformed around him. Winter melting into Spring; Summer succumbing to Autumn. Never-ending, never the same. From solstice to equinox, he endured for no particular reason apparent to him.

He had no reason to go on because it had all been the same yet he had no reason to stop because everything was fresh and new and marvelous despite being tediously similar and terribly challenging.

But some seasons ago, the skin people came. Only then did the suicidal ruminations skip upon his mind, causing deep rifts in his thoughts.

Was there a connection? Did he sense the darkening storm of this incursion?

If so, why had he found these odd characteristics at the same time? Why was he able to become a fish or a hawk? How did he learn to be invisible? Or maybe, he was already invisible. Why could he fly like an eagle or swim like a fish – sometimes at the same moment? Had he not flung himself off a precipice only to float upon the air like a feather?

Nothing would be the same – not the river, not the forests, not the flora nor fauna. But this was a different different – not the distinctions of winters or summers or springs or falls over his long years but the difference in smells, sounds and sights.

The ripples of thought spread out across the lake and disappeared.

Big Goof turned away from the stone bench and the cliff. He had forgotten what had brought him to the precipice, what ripple had disturbed him to wish to join the others.

He was both elated and frightened from his flying down and back up the river. He wondered whether he should jump off the cliff again to see whether he could float upon the winds, but his stomach gurgled and his lips smacked for moisture, so he stomped back through the ash grove, headed wherever his feet took him, the disturbing thoughts evaporating like a morning fog.