Gone With the Morning

The clearing was easy enough to find again.

A crooked cedar stood watch at its southern edge, its trunk split by lightning many years ago. A narrow stream curved gently around the eastern side before disappearing beneath thick ferns.

Durn remembered the place well.

He arrived shortly after sunrise.

The first thing he heard was birdsong.

A robin called from somewhere overhead.

Another answered.

Moments later, a flock of finches burst from the grass in a flurry of wings before settling farther uphill.

Durn remained where he was.

Listening.

The clearing felt...

ordinary.

A squirrel chased another across the branches above him.

Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the nearby stream.

Even the breeze carried the familiar scent of damp earth and flowering shrubs.

Yesterday's silence had vanished.

He waited longer than before.

Nothing changed.

Eventually he walked the length of the clearing, studying the ground where he had stood the previous afternoon.

There were fresh hoofprints.

Several rabbits had crossed during the night.

A fox had hunted here before dawn.

Life had returned without hesitation.

If anything had disturbed the balance yesterday, it had left no trace behind.

Durn closed his eyes.

Perhaps there had never been anything to find.

The thought did not trouble him.

Being wrong was no burden.

Mistaking certainty for wisdom was.

He opened his journal.

Beneath yesterday's entry, he added another.

Birdsong returned.

He looked around the clearing one last time before fastening the journal to his belt.

"No pattern yet," he murmured to himself.

Then, after a moment's thought, he quietly corrected his own words.

"No pattern... that I understand."

With that, he turned toward the northern trail and disappeared beneath the ancient canopy once more.