Feather

By Omer Barkay

Day one: Fall

As the sun begins to rest, the trees shed their leaves, orange fruits grow from the garden. The ground turns black, and my ears ring from the dry air. A tiny brown spec falls onto my nose. I extend my arms to place it in my hand, so small and fragile, it might blow away. It is a feather. My finger grabs its stem as I look up into the night sky. An owl flies past into the forest. I follow.

Breakfastatnight

The rustling of the trees and the extent of the branches land as I run past. The ground is dry, so I feel for a spot to sit down. Bushes surround me, so I probably won’t be seen. The bird falls to the forest floor, searching for something. A tiny gray creature rummages through the bushes in the distance; got it! I see a sparkle in its eyes as the predator flies up into the air, waiting to swoop down. The rat comes out of the greenery, unaware of what lies ahead…

A gray-brown owl flies off, with half a rodent in its beak.

I stand up, the owl was nowhere to be found. “Chirp! Click!” Cricket. I walk along the forest path, following the insects’ sounds. Rocks line my surroundings; better watch, ‘could trip. I pull back a leaf to find the valley behind. Light glistens from the long trench under the mountains. I look around; fireflies! Not crickets at all. The war creatures, using their own secret code. I pull a rusty journal from my coat pocket—Grandfather’s diary. Blowing the dust off the hard leather top and flipping through; years of experience and exploration notes itself. Fireflies. He kept a page on what he could find about the insects flying through the night, and I added on every time I could. I could make at least something out; “Food… Fly… Mate…,” like every night. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Cave

My life’s purpose is in my hand, the book. Well, books. 4 lie in my bag; each Grandpa’s, each for a different reason. Life, Nonliving, Self, and an empty pad I use as my composition. Hiking over to the waterfall is not an easy job, but the reward is worth the world. Grass crunches as my head races. Stream, rocks, cave. My spot. For me. MeandGrandpa.

Lots of dust holds the cave behind the fall, but It’s peaceful. Light hits the water’s meet and flies off in colors. I open the last book. KnowingTheForest:7/14.

ThoughItisveryquiethere,conversationsneverstop.The treesaresendingsignalstothemushrooms,theantsare inthemiddleofafull-blownmonarchy(!),andIamplaying ping-pongwithideasinmyhead.Thewaterisaliveaswell.

Itrunswithoutstopping,withnobreaks.Itpassestheriver, downthefall,and‘plop;plop;plop,’ontomyhead.There arenopeopletospeakofhere;somyresearchgrows,but there’snohopeofsharingit.Alone.Me,theforest,and Grandpa.