Summer

There once was a little girl that lived near the edge of a spruce forest. Her eyes were the blue of the hardest glacier ice but they were quick like the chickadees that stayed all winter. Ever since she was able to stand on her own feet she tried to see everything with those quick chickadee eyes. And as soon as she could walk on her own two feet she was determined to see the silver teasing between the spruce trees and laughing over the fire weed. Through seasons of the aurora and the midnight sun she watched squirrel and moose and the occasional caribou wander through the grass that formed a barrier against the spruce forest keeping the cool darkness of the pines away. But there were spaces, openings among the under brush big enough for her. The forest was open to her and had invited her in. She knew now that the silver was the birch tree, the harbinger of winter with it's golden finale. She knew the squirrels slept in the ground under a blanket of snow all winter and she knew that the willow shoots were eaten by the moose, and moose are always best avoided. Now here feet know how to avoid the tangles of roots and she always answers back to the squirrels who yell at her as she intrudes on their forest.

Days slide by some trapped in doors, there is school and other things the adults thinks she should do. But now the grass is a carpet heralding the embrace of the forest since her parents no longer worry so much. She has always returned when she was told, come when she was called. In spring the night still comes and stars shine down but they slowly disappear as the equinox approaches. The glow of a sleepless sun soon lights the nights. The shadows are deep under the eves of the trees but the eyes adjust. And the feet are sure. And the forest opens new secrets with the each foot step. There is a space, no trees block the twilight sky. The curtain of trees part to reveal a pond crowded with snow geese. They are busy raising their young for the flight south. Kneeling in the tall grass at the edge of the water watching, counting, listening to the countless honks. There is a splash to her left, a clomp of water as something hits the surface. A fat frog full of mosquitoes. Again to the right this time. And the speckled back slides under the water in front of her. Twice more the she sees the fish swim past. She notices red near the gills. She sees the two marble eyes motionless except for the circling fins and the gills keeping time as the mouth opens to breath. The fish is watching her. Slowly the trout pushes its nose through the water as if smelling her. She is quiet, she is still, her glacier eyes dare not blink. She can see the fish clearly through the water and the sky is brighter now after midnight. The deep crimson cut on the throat of the fish. She hears the small splashes and wet sounds of the fish hovering in the water. Almost a whisper. A language of moss and smooth rocks and water that laughs on it way to something important, of tidal pools, and the silence of winter. But it was gone with a crash of grass and a brilliant orange flame running on four legs, stupid fox! Greedy for goose, heedless of the girl, the fox was gone as well. The geese too busy to notice the small commotion in the weeds. She watches them for awhile more, hoping the trout will return. But it is nearly morning and soon her mother will come to wake her up. It is good to be in bed dreaming when breakfast is ready and another day is laid out ready to be discovered.

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