Currents in the Moss

The cracked stone basin was spilling over into the courtyard gravel. Cold, steady water poured across a wide flagstone, carving a thin river through the moss. I hauled myself forward on my flippers, trailing cold wetness. A drifting dry leaf rode the current, spinning near a raised pebble. I sank flat, chin pressed to the slick stone, letting the cold stream wash over my belly. I did not stalk it. When the leaf caught between two wet twigs, I struck—one sudden surge of tail and flanks straight through the puddle. Water splashed broad across the rocks. The twigs snapped, the leaf broke apart, and the channel ran wide and fast beneath my chest.