Elk’s Breath
Reflections of a wild world
The woods were silent but for the soft babbling of the creek winding through frost-covered stones. I walked slowly, each step muffled by a thin layer of snow, my breath curling in the cold morning air. Sunlight filtered through bare branches, casting long shadows on the forest floor. The quiet wrapped around me like a blanket, broken only by memory.
I had seen him here once, standing still beside the water, half-shrouded in the mist—an enormous bull elk, his antlers crowning him like ancient branches. His breath plumed in heavy clouds as he chuckled, the sound deep and wild, vibrating through the cold morning air.
He hadn’t run—just watched me with calm, curious eyes. His breath rose in soft white clouds, steady and gentle, like the creek’s rhythm. I remembered the way he looked—proud and strong—for a long moment, neither of us moved. The creek flowed between us, steady and unbothered. Then, with one final puff of breath and a flick of his massive neck, he turned and melted into the woods. I stood alone once more, but the spell of the forest had changed. Where once there was quiet memory, now lingered the echo of breath, the cold, and the wild bugle of the elk.
He was now gone, a ghost, a memory.
