Silent Passage
The creek flows under the bridge, moving fast enough to cause the smaller birds to pause on the banks. It is a rich, deep brown, the brown of eyes that are always soft and that feel good when they are turned on you. A short distance from the bridge, the top edge of a fallen log rises from the water. The water splits around the log, tracing the shape of a flower petal in the water. A dull sort of gray covers everything this morning as thick clouds hang in the space between the sun and the ground. Just beyond the tree line, yellow buds rise through the leaf cover. They provide just enough contrast to see the leaves shimmy as a chipmunk runs underneath, seeking shelter from the awakening red-shouldered hawks.
A short way down the trail from the bridge, a young deer pauses at the tree line. It stands perfectly still, ears poised and neck turned over its shoulder like a high school glamor shot. Its tail twitches once, twice, then relaxes. The deer straightens its neck and continues walking through the spaces between the trees. Groundwater quickly seeps into its heart-shaped footprints, leaving tiny puddles.
Gradually, languidly, the cloud cover stretches, separates, beings to break apart. Bright mid-morning sun pokes through, touching everything with white light. The faded grass blooms into individual shades of yellow, brown, and green. The staccato tapping of a woodpecker pierces the quiet air, echoing through the open valley.
At the top of the hill, the mechanical roar of a diesel engine assaults the morning. The small animals retreat and the deer bounds further into the woods. The red-shouldered hawks cease their morning spirals and perch at the tops of the budding trees, scowling at the harsh noise. At the growing whine of a circular saw, even the hawks decide it is enough. They take off and spiral towards the deeper, quieter forest. A chipmunk peeks out from under cover of leaves, watching the hawks depart.
I feel the cold surface of the asphalt road reaching through my pants and traveling along my body. My back aches, my head aches where it is pressed against the bridge railings. I try to move my fingers and they obey unwillingly. A warm line of blood on my temple slowly coagulates and beings to chill. I close my eyes. I take off one glove and rest my hand on the road, running my fingers back and forth over its rough surface. The sensation calms me until I feel my fingers swell up in the cold. I put my glove back on and open my eyes.
The deer stands less than ten feet in front of my, head dipped down so that we are eye to eye. Her eyes are the color of the creek water, the color of coffee, the color of the first moments of sleep after a long, hard day. She takes one step closer. I raise one hand and hold it palm up.
This is a story-start — if you’d like to see where the story goes “clap” for it. My “winning” start (based on number of readers who clap for it) will be developed further and might grow into a full short story!
