The Hunt:

The winds have changed again — not their path, but their weight.

Yesterday, a woman from the southern bend came early to council. She said the birds are still there in the mornings — just quiet. As if they’re holding their breath, waiting for something that hasn’t arrived yet.

She brought with her a scrap of bark, carved with marks not her own.
Her son found it near an old trail, pressed into the dirt like it had been carried far and left without care.

No one could read it. But it was cut straight — not burned, not scratched. Sharp, even lines.

This morning, a boy who runs with the scouts said he saw smoke on the eastern edge. Thin, steady — not from firewood. From clearing.

The elders say we are not yet called to speak.
That listening is our task.

But even the dogs do not bark when strangers pass.
And the wind that carried their scent does not return.

To Be Continued…