I sat motionless. I was far enough into the woods the sound of irreverent boys was lost. The church of nature soothed my soul. Giant sycamore leaves rustled in the small breeze. A something fell from the heights: a branch, or nut, or pine cone. By now even the squirrels ignored me. I idly and slowly brushed at the insects humming in my face and ears.
I saw small movement out of the corner of my right eye. A box turtle moved across the trail in halting minuscule steps. Slowly, slowly he inched along, aiming with precision towards a patch of nettles. Eventually he entered and disappeared without a trace. No bent stems in his wake. I wondered at that.
I glanced right, the way I had come. To the left I sensed water, the rivulet that flowed through the camp. With a sigh I moved down the game path, straddled the stream and came back to the trail I had been on earlier.
This time I did turn right. After a few hundred yards or so, I heard voices. An almost imperceptible frown touched briefly on my narrow 13 year old face.