The Day the Water Boiled
A frog jumped off the lilypad, plopping into the water. It was a cool day, one of the last days I'd get to swim in the lake. The exercise was paying off, I had cut my cholesterol in half. I had finished running the lake and didn't intend to float long. Perhaps eight or nine bars of the birds chirping accompanied by the droning of insects and I'd be out, just enough to cool down. It was freezing, but refreshing.
I glanced around, the mountain regal and imposing, the forest peaceful and green, the glassy water rippling ever so slightly. There was a slight scent of smoke in the air, the remnants of a summer filled with forest fires. Those fires both took life and prepared the way for new life.
I pondered this mystery as I floated in the cold water. Life from death and death from life. A school of fish shimmered under me, heading for the outlet of the lake. My thoughts drifted. I wondered when the mountain would be covered in snow again. Such a beautiful site, the rock resolute against the elements.
I wondered how long the mountain had endured, drifting through time the way I drifted through the cool water. What had it seen, what had it survived. It existed on such a grand timescale, I hadn't been there for it's birth, and would be long gone before it's death.
How long had I been here? No matter, the water felt so good. I had padddled my way out to the middle of the lake, as if floating in a huge bath. A flock of birds flew into the distance
I was yanked out of my reverie by the silence. The warm water, soothing my muscles had distracted me. I glanced upward.
Was that steam coming off the peak?
The mountain exploded. Dirt, rocks, and fiery red lava bursting from the peak. I was just like the frog I had see jumping into the lake.
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Prologue