The Quiet Woods

By Joey Oshins

In this quiet wood the snap of a branch is as loud as a gunshot. I walk as if the ground is laced with mines, choosing each step with pinpoint precision.

The golden light is growing dimmer, but still breaking through cracks, in the study green shield above my head. Cold evening air sends sparks running down my spine.

With a rifle in hand, the rumbling in my stomach reminds me of my task. As I trudge on I see a pond, so still and calm It could be frozen.

The opening the pond creates in the forest canopy, allows for rays of sunlight, to reflect off the still water, and dance in the yellow leaves.

As I spot a pair of Doe by the water, peacefully relieving their thirst, my heart rate quickens and adrenaline fills me. Instinctually the iron of my rifle’s sight finds the eye of the Doe.

Is filling my stomach, worth killing such an innocent creature? With fur that gleams radiantly in the light, and dark eyes that can't see me cast in shadow?

The rifle finds my hip, and I take a seat by the pond shore, unbothered that the noise sends the Does darting, into the impenetrable forest shadows.

By the pond bed I see flowers like little yellow fireworks, ants that march like soldiers.

I hear birds singing sharp melodies.

I realize this woods is more than just trees and animals, it is a explosion of life in all forms, as complex as a raging storm, this pond is the eye of the hurricane.