Half the Border -- Half the Forest
No Name

Being the other half, though unnamed and unclaimed, of the Forest of Quiet, it bears striking resemblance to its opposite half. Perhaps it was just the almost too-much-to-handle silence that made it vacant of ownership and left for the drifters. The area is as well mostly quiet, but perhaps for those loners who know silence so well, it is but a sanctuary.

Sprouting high above one’s head are the beeches and ash trees, followed by cherry trees and sugar maples by the dozen. In fact, spring often turns the place into a whirl of softly-pink toned flower petals fluttering amidst the breath like breezes which find themselves breaking free of the trees, just beginning to grow back leaves from their diluted stage of winter hibernation.

The real questions are on the once-mentioned silence. So quiet it pulses through the air, allowing the beating of thick air to cloud one’s mind. Is the bray of an orphaned fawn, or the rustle of leaves in the wind really muted, or simply unheard under mere belief. Can silence really be so silent that it revolves so loudly in one’s head, or is it a figment in the persistence of the mind? That is for those to decide who venture so willingly into the forest, strolling along the mossy ground, sun dappled by the canopy.