[ There's a tree — just the one — poised at the very edge of the cliff. Half on, half off it clings to the sheer rock face, its roots seeming to pour from the cracks in the stone like molten lava flowing upwards. Its branches are mostly sparse save at the very top of its crown; the entire posture of the tree is stretched towards over the water, trained that way by the passage of the sun and decades worth of costal wind blowing at its back.
Nestled in the lowest crook its boughs offers is Mako Mori, her legs dangling freely in the open air. In her hands is a thick slice of watermelon, cut from the fat belly of the fruit by a knife that had no place on a kitchen cuttingboard but which Ranger Hansen had assured her was perfectly serviceable. (Knife's a knife, Miss Mori. And that — that's a knife.)
Juice runs down her chin; she wipes at it with her forearm as the boys whiz by — tan streaks against grey stone. They plummet like stones into the water below.
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Nestled in the lowest crook its boughs offers is Mako Mori, her legs dangling freely in the open air. In her hands is a thick slice of watermelon, cut from the fat belly of the fruit by a knife that had no place on a kitchen cuttingboard but which Ranger Hansen had assured her was perfectly serviceable. (Knife's a knife, Miss Mori. And that — that's a knife.)
Juice runs down her chin; she wipes at it with her forearm as the boys whiz by — tan streaks against grey stone. They plummet like stones into the water below.
Splish. Splash. Splosh. ]