The sun peaked through the morning mist over War Eagle Creek, like it had every day for thousands of years. A yearning but melancholy silence was pierced briefly by a sharp and rattling cry from a kingfisher. One last drop of dew fell from a low hanging branch into the creek, casting a ripple that arced outward, forever. Palpably frozen in time, a simple handful of soil embodied serenity.
Casually tossing the dirt over his shoulder, Jack hauled himself onto the backhoe. Its motor roared to life. He methodically spent the rest of the day knocking trees into the creek.
