Wrinkled hands, timekeepers

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.

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