Distant Familiarity

The dog's leash dragged softly through the untended, shadowed grass. She had never been this far into the trees before. The air smelled different here. Older. Less like the warmbaroma of contained rooms. More like rain-soaked bark and soil that thrummed with life. A large gray stranger stepped from between the trunks without sound. She froze. The stranger was larger than she was by more than a head. Built of quiet strength. Her fur carried the gray of storm clouds, and streaks of red marred her flank like fading embers. This stranger almost seemed kin, but not. The dog’s tail stiffened straight up. They stared at each other. The gray stranger did not bare her teeth. She did not growl. But she watched with a stillness that felt heavy. A flicker of nervousness, but not fear. Her head lowered, eyes steady, as if weighing something. The dog felt a pull deep in her chest. Behind the stranger, somewhere beyond the trees, was a voice that seemed to call her. But it was a language older than praise. Older than commands. Her eyes searched for its source, but only saw forest. The leash lay slack behind her, like the small world she left. The dog took one step forward. The gray stranger’s ears twitched in in quiet acknowledgment. For a breath, the forest felt like it was familiar.