The woods grew quiet as songbirds followed the shadow of a large predator circling over the treetops.
Two turkey vultures floated in the currents of air rising above the forest, in search of a meal.
A crow cawed.
A yellow swallowtail, temporarily suspended in place by swirling breezes, caught the attention of no one as it fluttered over the carcass of a centipede.
A black fly tasted the centipede and flew on.
The vultures moved out over a field and the forest grew loud with bird chatter.
Poison ivy slowly crept up a tree.
A dead oak leaf from last year’s crop sailed to the forest floor.
Time has no meaning in a forest — the forest is time.