Is the Gator Interested in the Fish or Human

The swamp hummed with a deceptive lull. The air, thick enough to chew, hung heavy with the perfume of decaying cypress and the earthy tang of mud. Sunlight, fractured by the dense canopy, dappled the water in shimmering emerald coins. And nestled amongst the lily pads, barely discernible from the mottled shadows, lay Old Mossback.

Old Mossback was a creature of habit, of instinct, and ultimately, of opportunity. He wasn’t concerned with philosophical quandaries or existential anxieties. His world was simple: survive, thrive, and preferably, do so while expending minimal energy. And in that world, the question wasn’t about what he was interested in, but what presented the most efficient path to a full belly.

For weeks, the fish had been plentiful. Schools of glittering bream, lured by the algae blooms, darted in and out of the submerged roots. Old Mossback, with the patience born of millennia of reptilian evolution, would lie motionless, a submerged log until the opportune moment. A flick of his massive tail, a snap of his jaws, and another fish joined the silent graveyard of his stomach. Fish were predictable, abundant, and required minimal effort. He was interested in them, certainly. They were the sustenance that fueled his languid existence.

Then, the humans arrived.

Not the quiet, respectful kind, weaving through the waterways in silent canoes. These were the noisy, splashing, brightly-colored kind, shouting and gesturing and generally disrupting the delicate ecosystem. They were accompanied by the metallic clang of their contraptions and the noxious fumes that stung Old Mossback’s nostrils. They weren’t a welcome addition to his domain.

But they were… interesting.

He observed them from beneath the murky surface, his ancient eyes narrowed slits. He watched them stumble on the muddy banks, their clumsy movements a stark contrast to the fluid grace of the herons. He saw them cast their lines, glittering threads that dangled tempting morsels into the water. And he smelled them – a potent mix of sweat, sunscreen, and something vaguely… meaty.

Were they potential prey? The thought flickered through his reptilian brain. He’d heard whispers on the swamp winds, tales of gators taking dogs, even children, that strayed too close to the water’s edge. But those were desperate acts, born of hunger and desperation. He wasn’t desperate.

He also sensed something else. A sense of… audacity. These creatures, so fragile and vulnerable, dared to intrude upon his territory, to fish in his waters. They were a challenge. And perhaps, more importantly, they were potentially… easier? Catching a single human would yield far more sustenance than a dozen bream.

Old Mossback wasn’t necessarily interested in the human as an individual. He didn’t harbor any particular animosity. He was interested in the opportunity the human presented. The potential for a quick, satisfying meal.

One particularly boisterous fisherman, adorned in a garish orange shirt, waded deeper into the water, his attention focused entirely on his lure. He was practically begging for attention. Old Mossback stirred. The water around him swirled. He could practically taste the fear emanating from the human.

He rose slowly, deliberately, a silent leviathan emerging from the depths. The startled yell, the frantic scrambling, the desperate splash – it was all music to his ancient ears.

But then, something unexpected happened. A large, colorful bird squawked loudly overhead, distracting Old Mossback for a fleeting moment. The human, seizing the opportunity, stumbled backwards onto firmer ground, his face pale with terror. He scrambled away, leaving behind a dropped rod and a lingering scent of fear.

Old Mossback watched him go, a flicker of something akin to… disappointment? No. It was more like… calculating the missed opportunity. The effort outweighed the potential reward. The human was gone, and the fish were still plentiful.

He sank back into the murky depths, resuming his patient vigil. The human, for now, was safe. But the question remained, simmering beneath the surface of Old Mossback’s ancient, reptilian brain. Was the gator interested in the fish or the human? The answer, as always, depended on the opportunity. And Old Mossback was always watching, always waiting, always assessing. The swamp hummed on, a silent promise of potential meals and the ever-present dance between predator and prey.