Forest-Watcher

I am silence.
I am invisibility.
I am precision.
I am gracefulness.
Quiet is the forest in the morning, the sun still concealed beyond the ever-distant horizon. The morning mists blanket the land, and the monotonous veil makes the green of the trees and shrubs more vivid than any other time of the day. Dew covers the grass, the bushes, the vines, and the trees, and the individual droplets twinkle ever so slightly in the half-light before the dawn.
A twig snaps.
A doe. She walks with the grace of an animal that knows these forest paths by heart. The fog does not bother her-what her eyes cannot see, her ears will hear, or her nose will smell. Caution guides her step, for many are those in the woods that would prey upon her, and it is not just herself she must watch out for this day. Her fawn trots behind her in playful innocence and the endless bliss of youth. How is he to know, just days into life, that the great gray wolf and the might brown bear and the eternally wrathful wolverine all see him as nothing more than dinner? To him the world is a playground-there are flowers to sniff, leaves to nibble, and bizarre animals like rabbits and porcupines and squirrels to marvel at. Such views are so tragically fleeting, and in a few years he too will be ruled by instinct and behavior, striving only to survive and to find and keep mates when the season arrives.
A low howl rings out through the morning air, the mournful melody sadder than anything manmade instruments could produce. The doe freezes, her startled fawn following suit, but they've nothing to fear. The old alpha has passed away this morning, and his mate and siblings and children mourn. Their howls this dawn are not those of a pack of hunters communicating the movements of prey to one another, but those of a family stung by loss. The two deer will be far gone by the time this pack hunts again.
Less interested in the funeral hymn of the wolves is the sow bear, her great chocolate-colored figure lumbering through the forests with an aura of power about her. Her cubs follow her, tumbling playfully amidst the shrubbery as their mother sniffs the air. The deer dart into the shadows, in no hurry to meet the powerful matron. She has lived many years in this forest and is among the strongest creatures that dwell there. And with yet another pair of young in tow, she is even more dangerous than usual. Even the vicious wolverine, who she normally is wary of for his ferocious nature, knows to give her a wide berth when she has cubs in tow. Her cubs are her reason for living, and raising them is her only goal in life. No beast will dare encroach on her duty and escape unscathed, and many are the creatures that have fallen to her wrath this season in years long since passed.
A pair of squirrels scampers through the undergrowth, collecting nuts to bury throughout the forest while keeping an eye peeled for the many larger creatures that might like to make a meal of them. One such individual, the lynx, stalks through the area, but she's eaten already this morning, and has no more room for two small rodents. But of course, the squirrels have no way to know this, and scamper up the nearest tree, hissing in alarm and anger at the graceful feline who has dared to interrupt their morning forage. Watching all of this with amusement twinkling in his eyes is the fox, perched upon a tree stump as he observes his neighbors this morning. Crafty like no other is the fox, and he shows not the slightest bit of fear as the lynx passes him by, knowing that she's no reason to bother him. Of greater concern to him is the musky odor that spells death and destruction for all it meets that is beginning to pervade the calmness of the wood.
Snapping twigs in the brush are the next sign of danger. Birds whistle alarms and small animals scurry for cover. The raging berserker of the woods has arrived-the wolverine. Hateful towards all he meets, the mightiest of weasels fears and respects none but himself. All those who feats upon plants are prey to him, should he be able to catch them, and the other eaters of flesh, even the powerful bear and the wise wolf, know to abandon a carcass if the wolverine decides he wants it. All the land in the forest is his domain, and any animal that wishes to cling to life knows to flee before his stench.
Or most of them do, anyways. Disturbed by the wrathful mustelid's angry cries, a great-horned owl looks down at him with stern disapproval written on his features, quite unhappy to be woken up after having just come to rest after a long night of hunting. His hoot of dissatisfaction though is rendered mute beneath the wolverine's vicious cries, and he is left no other option but to fly off in search of a quieter place to sleep.
I cannot help but wish I could follow his example. The wolverine knows not that I am here, and is of no threat to me, but as the sun begins to rise over the distant mountains bathing the landscape in golden light, I can only wish that the beautiful scene was not being ruined by the wretched weasel's unholy din. The clouds of mist begin to dissipate, and the forest becomes gradually more visible through the golden veil. I squint into the sunlight, blocking out my noisy neighbor's cries with soothing thoughts.
I am the watcher of this forest, its guardian. I see all, but am seen by none. I hear all, but am heard by none. I watch over all of the forest's creatures, but none of them know of me.
I am silence.
I am invisibility.
I am precision.
I am gracefulness.
I am the forest-watcher. Perhaps you would like to come watch with me?