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Woodland grounds of twisted roots lay mazes of crawl tunnels. A free ground of many varieties of twisted sticks. Many shrubbery and low ground plants. Torn timbers of wild storms shelter a platform of mushroom plates. Many berries, nuts, fruits, herbs and bark of trees. Perfect gathering for medicines and foods.

Many eyes lay this area over many generations from simple gathers, poor man of farmers field, nobility peacocks that flouted rich and even today a tree master. A crafts man of his skill in all sorts of woods.

Echoes of the snapped twigs had flashed strange internal feels of instinct. Such a young little boy held deep impression of his souls history to this woodland.

A little tiny hand brushes old lost stone marks, brushed as if the day they were made. A repetitive task of many hands that cares little for the dirt and moss that carpets the stone surface. A slate wiped clean again and again.

It is only that the contours of the stone surface that is being rushed away by weather and many hands of this soul.

Hazel eyes that dotted the canopy, always expecting the sounds of birds. A take in all his senses, drawing breath. That cold in the lungs as the dew of the morning lifts from the field past the clearing he came from. The brush of tingling chill that brushes the face from the breeze. The damp decay taste that clings in the nose from the earthy smells.

He felt so in tune to the moment of meditation, it were like waking up out from a long dream.

He sharply looks above to see what type of bird that lands near him today. Kissie pointed lips that whistle soft with chirpy tones.

Flies aways, blocking the sun... hard to make out such a strange large bird.

A feather flutters down, a small one this time. A little bird... Nothing like the one he seen. But this little blur tit feather is perfect for something he was making at home.

Home.

He savours the peace of the forest. Nothing like the fire crackling at the middle of the round house. Not of the smell of the family cow or the hens. None of that annoyance of the gaggle his family constantly chitters.

Home.

He tucks the feather into the sleeve of the handy down shirt, quilted patch work at the elbows and wrists of the many times it been repaired. At rush to pick up the best condition of dry sticks. Any berries to eat as he did it was a bonus.

He doesn't have to hear that angry shouting once to know he should have been home by now. Early morning was the only moment of peace.