The Stream That Forgot Its Water

On May 15th, José Marín made his way down an earthen trail where branches and trees arch overhead to form a natural tunnel, the ground carpeted with dry leaves and small stones that crunch beneath every step. At the far end, where the stream should have been running, he found only silence and cracked earth — the channel completely dry, not a single drop, as though the water had set off on a journey without leaving word. Despite the absence of water, the place was far from empty. In the cool shade of the canopy, palomas, guacharacas, and barranqueros had settled in — those turquoise-breasted birds that know how to find shelter even when conditions grow hard. They rested undisturbed, indifferent to the heat that by mid-afternoon had already thickened the air across the reserve. José filed his report calmly, nothing unusual to note beyond the stream surrendered to the rainless weeks, and promised to return later to complete the monitoring round. The trail fell still again, dappled light filtering down through the foliage, quietly holding its breath.