Jamaica; 10 million years ago
Wood and water, water and wood.
Rain falls. Seeds sow.
Wood and water, water and wood.
Tendrils sprawl. Currents flow.
Wood and water, water and wood.
Rivers roar. Branches grow.
Wood and water, water and wood.
Trees soar. Clouds roll.
Wood and water, water and wood.
Rain falls. Seeds sow.
…and now the forest is born. Roots digging deep over limestone karst. Burrowing. Delving. Trees holding firm against frenetic storms. They bow, they sway. Yet steadfast they remain.
In swamp stillness, drizzle hangs in the air like a levitating sea. The mist settles on heart-shaped leaves and over great pools of water; ripples glisten in the morning light. On a floating log, a dragonfly settles, antennae twitching, wings still. All around, towering trunks plunge into the murky depths, where behemoth fish weave between swaying ferns, a shifting kaleidoscope of green.
The trees thirst: mighty giants that glug and grow, racing to the heavens with canopies that unfurl to salute prehistoric skies, capturing cosmic rays from distant suns, chemistry bubbling away in chloroplast cauldrons. Light turns to matter.
And now the forest is ready. Sustainer of life. Provider of food. Guardian, protector. But first it waits: waits for the first canoe, the first fire, the first smoke. This place, this land, this Xaymaca – the land of wood and water.
