I must’ve left myself there some time before. I couldn’t remember when.
Staring up at the sun, legs akimbo. If anyone else had found me lying there on the rain-sodden leaf-littered floor they’d have thought me dead, for sure. But I was alive alright. So still and silent I could hear the beat of the blue tit’s wing, fluttering from branch to branch above my head.
I hadn’t taken my usual path. The well-trodden track that leads me unthinking to the same old places; and ends up rocking in my grandmother’s chair. That path bored me. I had to find my own way. Besides, my way was far less scary.
Now, armed with birch and birdsong, when the wolf comes I’ll know what to do.