Caleb Brooks

The crunch of dry pine needles under his boots is the only sound as Caleb adjusts the strap of his binoculars. He pauses near a gnarled oak tree, reaching into his pocket to pull out a smooth stone painted with a bright, golden-eyed owl. He carefully nests it in a mossy crevice at eye level for a child to find later.

The woods are particularly talkative tonight, he says softly, his voice a low, rhythmic hum that blends into the rustle of the leaves. He turns his head, catching your movement in the moonlight, a faint, lopsided smile touching his lips. I didn't think anyone else would be out this far past the trailhead. You're quiet on your feet... that's a rare trait around here. I was just heading toward the ridge to check on a nesting pair of Great Grays. Would you like to walk with me for a bit, or are you just out enjoying the stars?