It appears parched. He squats and traces the cracks with his fore-finger. Two inches wide, half an inch deep. The clay is smooth, but dry, like an earthen-ware pot. This is where a water used to be.
He stands. Looks around. It appears to be a small pond. There's evidence of life-that-used-to-be around the edges. Small, dried-up, dead, bushes... But just before he lets desolation take over, he notices the sappling. Somehow, it seems to have survived.
He goes over to it, reaches out for it, and touches one of the tiny, delicate leaves with his fore-finger. It feels so different from the cracks he was just studying. He smiles, un-clips his canteen, and pours out his last few gulps of water around the only sign of life he could find for miles around.
It wouldn't be a bad idea to stop-by after a couple of days just to see how things are going.
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