It has been six years, to the day, since—

I place the thought away. It isn’t important, what today is.

I left my house, and sauntered into the woods encompassing it. I trekked aimlessly, pulling my golden hair into a pony-tail. It was late-winter, as of now, and the trees were gray and thin, with skeletal branches and fingers that reached— what they reached for I couldn’t know. The sky was dull. The clouds cast a shadow over the forest, rendering everything dark, and dismal. I walked. Eventually I came upon a stream running though the mountain, cutting its way through the forest, and beside it was a hunting post.

Beer cans and cigarette butts were spread about, buried in the leaves. There was one bottle I found particular interesting. It was an amber-tinted 20 ounce bottle that was empty, lying before an oak. The post itself, though secured into a tree, was rusted, and the netting was torn. Whoever left these bottles, cans, and cigarettes had evidently abandoned this post, as well. Everything here was abandoned. Once this dreary place served it’s purpose, it was left behind.

The whole forest looked gray. There was a chill in the air. Not a bird sang; not a squirrel could be heard leaping across trees; and there were no deer. It was desolate. But there was one dogwood that had a single white bloom on its branch, across the stream, and the bloom shined like a piece of gold amidst a pan of gravel.