Analog dreams

I veered off the trail onto a game path, my lithe body small enough to fit between the maples and sassafras  as easily as the deer that wore down the undergrowth. It was hot. Small sweat ran down my back. There was unexpected rock in a small clearing. Sunlight played a yellow and green light as it sifted through the leaves. Birds chirped. I sat. A woodpecker beat a steady tattoo. I searched: there, high on that beech. Frogs and cicadas hummed a steady background. Gnats and mosquitoes buzzed in my ears. 

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.