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The stream babbled quietly. A shallow affair and much less active than the torrent a mile north. Its waters would flow onward gracefully as if dancing between the roots jutting from its banks and the rocks standing just above the surface. Small pools dotted the stream giving a clear view of the earth beneath. Those northen rapids were more fruitful both in the fish they bore in size and number, but the hike was difficult. My stream, Willows' Brook as I have taken to calling it, was much closer and more sirene, picturesque even. Indeed, my mother's last painting was of my stream and was one of the few momentos I had left of her.

A bird called. The tree I climbed was quiet, but the birds here did not take flight. In my younger years, while I trained with my father, the birds and hares would leave as soon as they caught scent of me. Now, however, I was experienced. A different bird called, and the elk I was stalking looked up. He was open and still. I loosed an arrow.

After I drug the kill back to my house, I began to clean it up. I made a prayer, thanking whatever would listen. After giving my respects to the elk, I salted the meats that I wouldn't eat tonight, put them away, and hung the elks hide out to dry. I began to walk back to Willows' Brook to check my traps and wash up. Night was coming soon and there were dark clouds on the horizon.

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