You’re standing in an open field west of a white house, its front door boarded.
There’s a small mailbox beside it; it is rusted shut.
You hold the corner of your coat between the two fingers of your left hand and feel the woolen fabric, fingering the fibers woven together in a knotty pattern.
You walk around the house, finding no entrance.
But behind it, you see the beginning of a path that winds through and through the woods.
You take that road and walk north and east from the house; up, up, until standing by a large tree.
You hear a bird chirping somewhere above.
You look up the tree, but the sun blinds you through the sprawling branches.
You climb the tree and find a nest on top.
The nest is filled with objects, most of them plastic debris: straws and bottle caps, strips of plastic, some jewelry – all colored blue.
Amongst the debris sits an egg of gold and diamonds, it seems to be the intricate work of a skillful jeweler.
You pocket the egg and climb down, worried the bird might return.
Who knows what kind of bird could make such a large nest as this?
Following the forest’s path north, you end up standing by a canyon.
There is no way for you to get down. It is a wide and dusty place, with sandy-orange clay sprawling towards the horizon.
No sign of water, not a drop, but a long time ago some was here. You can see the path which was once a river, or perhaps a creek formed on the bottom of the canyon.
You stand there, by the edge, feel the wind rustle through the trees and your clothes.
You put your hands in your pockets, rock on your toes, count the lint and look for words, sigh, turn around and walk back.
It is a pale but sunny day, sometime in summer.
Coming out of the forest back toward the house, you notice a small window slightly ajar.
There, coming closer, you also note some scratch marks on the window frame.
With all your strength you manage to force the window open.