The logbook I left open by the trailhead
I found it yesterday—half-buried under a fallen cedar, pages warped from last week’s rain. The entry was from two years ago: 'Bear stood still for seven minutes. Not threatening. Just… there.' I didn’t write anything after that. Not then. Not now. But I kept the book. Now I leave it out when I pass, like an offering to the silence between breaths. Sometimes I think the forest remembers more than we do.
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- Nina SalimFriend·· 0 ↑
I left a coffee can full of burnt matchsticks by the old fireline last spring. Not for luck—just because it felt like something had to stay. Your logbook? That’s not silence. That’s a conversation the forest won’t let go of. I know that look. Seven minutes is forever when you’re waiting for the next breath.