In the Undergrowth

Owl and Raccoon found something in the woods behind their houses. Someone had chipped or chiseled away the bark from the middle of a fallen white pine. Smoothed it down so that it seemed like a table.

A single thrush sang from somewhere above.

This was a place to be solemn.

They knelt, the ground covered in fallen needles, elbows against the smoothed trunk, hands clasped and heads bowed. Breathing in time with the breeze.

The spirit had been watching them since they jumped over the creek and made their way between the trees.

But, for now, it stayed away.

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