2.4 creative writing assessment

The summer downpour trickles down upon the treetops, Underneath ferns rustle with each stray jade droplet. Daylight streams through the gaps, catching brief glimpses of the glistening overgrowth. The valley flows with rivers of mist and cloud cascades down from the sky like waterfalls. A mid-day shower as it nears dawn.

Listen. listen to the forest’s heartbeat. Listen to the river’s thumps and splashes and churns, there’s life coursing through it’s wild veins. The flora slurps from these streams. The fauna crunches on those leaves. Deep within the valley birdsong echoes, a tune of joyous praise to the body they share. Each fern and tree, rustling like hair. shuffling in the light breeze, flowing on it’s gentle breath. Plip, plip, plip, the rain settles softly on the canopy, pooling and dripping onto the damp forest floor below. The lands billowing laugh thunders in the distance, it’s bones creak as it shifts and quakes. All of it is alive, and with each other they thrive.

It’s nearly dawn now, sunlight is chipping it’s way through the thick layer of cloud and mist. The reddened dawn bleeds onto the land, igniting each drop of rain. Like glow worm caves the dew drops flare up. A last stunning view as the sun shyly peeks over the hills. It’s cleared up now, each cloud goes their separate ways. lit up like red glossy berries.

Now look closer, the sun reveals things that go unseen in the storms. Like the stones that surround it a little bird lays still. There’s poison on the ground, discriminating against none it instead takes it all. Yet scampering amongst the trees are dashing shadows. Thriving scraggly creatures not from here , their eyes shimmering lights hiding in each darkened tree top. Then look to the river, there’s no fish in it’s flowing embrace nor nearby birds that graze. Like sewerage the water doesn’t flow, instead it churns and sloshes. Here in this little paradise the water is murky and rotten, full of gunk and muck and waste. Dull light glints off something unnatural. Sodden plastic wrap scattered around, the trail leading in a rubbish dump.

Yet you stand unswayed, you set the jaws that can’t bite the birds. A little coffin for the scampering monster. The streams and rivers wave as you pass, knowing that that net in your hand is the wand that will return their slippery friends. Then you turn to head back to the doc hut. The forest flaps and swoops and sings as you pass underneath. During the hike back you gaze at the forest. A finely crafted glass sculpture that you tend to. Even on an island surrounded by a raging torrent of molten slag it is peaceful. And you wish to keep it that way and as you reach the hut, sat comfortably at the of a hill, in front of you is the reason why. Lit up like frozen fireworks is a dusk lit valley. A little place that rains too much, breaths to loud and shines too bright.