Early dawn, sunshiny face still hidden beneath a blanket of trees. Small birds set the stage with their opening act, flitting from bushes to feeders. Quietly, though; their tiny beaks peep more than crow. But tranquil is broken afar in the distance. Tensely, I open my ears and my eyes, focus on sound with my body.
Too concentrated for the squirrelly squirrel, more weight than the lightfooted deer. Not quite the crunching of bear—I don’t think…
It never appears, though long in the wings. It loses its impact in a crescendo of sunrise, since not all that is screaming is heard through the ear.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology