Solitude

Again, not a full story. Just a musing. I tend to do that a lot.

The rain is inevitable. It can be heard in whispers interwoven through the leaves of the poplars. The air feels tight, and heavy with undeveloped droplets. Everything is slower; the waves on Douglas Lake are plentiful but little more than ripples, and even the conversations between the birds seem delayed. A light grey blankets the sky, save the edges of the horizon which are a brilliant white. Closer to my field of vision, I can make out individual trees across the bay, but to the north, the haze blends them into an undulating row of slate.

When it does rain, I will be somewhat sheltered.  I sit nestled beneath a pine on a cushy bed of moss. The lake is close; if someone were to startle me, there is a distinct possibility I might toss up my notebook and tumble into its chilly waters. Chipmunks scurry past, their fur bright orange against the green leaves. A squirrel clambers up a tree, boasting a fuzzy black tail that isn’t quite as big as he thinks it is. He vanishes from sight probably because he, too, knows the rain is coming.

So I am left by myself in the woods once again, alone to take in the showers. But then I smile at my folly; is one ever truly alone in the forest?