Athena Evans
The fog threads through the golden lit trees like an ancient ghost floating through the autumn breeze.
It pulls her in, reminding her of a time she’s never lived in.
She begins counting the shadows of the tall trees, because counting the actual trees seems like too much work.
“One, two, three, four, five, five…” She always skips the number six as she feels it’s unlucky, but five is very lucky, so she repeats it.
She loses count when she hears a northern cardinal singing in the distance. She is reminded of holding her grandfather’s hand as a child and how it was five times bigger than her own. She smiles.
Her grandfather would sing out “pretty bird,” between every whistle as if he was talking to the bird. She couldn’t believe she had a grandfather who could talk to nature like that.
She quietly laughs to herself and continues her walk.