And yet even while I was exulting in my solitude I became aware of a strange lack. I wished a companion to lie near me in the starlight, silent and not moving, but ever within touch. For there is a fellowship more quiet even than solitude, and which, rightly understood, is solitude made perfect.
Everything changed late one afternoon. Something drew him deep into the forest shadows. Light and dark fragmented the forest floor, Unmoving, as though awaiting a coming storm. His eyes found it somehow in the dark, the seedling which called to him.
I’m too old for the term, but I’ll use it anyway. I’ll be a child of the wind, till the end of my days.
