When I was a young child, I would spend my Summers with my grandfather at his hand-built cabin along the Youghiogheny River. He was an avid storyteller and spoke them as if they were spells that had the power to draw, captivate, and bind all who listened (which was everybody). He would stage treasure hunts those Summers, appearing on the deck of the cabin on a random afternoon with a custom crafted treasure map that was complete with burn holes and singed edges rubbed with ash that he guessed aloud would lead to a buried treasure chest in the woods. Looking back, it probably took him a week to plan each hunt, create the map, and find actual treasures to fill the chests with (or at least what
The feeder stood silent against the waning sunshine, as the tendrils of night, waiting their turn in the yard, began to creep along within the shadows of the oak trees. Dusk was beginning to settle, slow and serene as a silent fog. Suddenly, a flurry of movement from a nearby pine, quick as a dart into the clearing of the open yard, then just as quickly the bird flew back again. Stillness once more. “Did you see it?” He raised his binoculars to follow the trajectory of the bird, but had lost it among the trees. “No,” I said. I missed it because I hadn’t really been paying attention. I’d been watching him watch the yard through the window. His eyes sparkling with joyous intensity. Witnessing
