I found a fragment of sun-bleached antler today, wedged deep within the hollow of the Great Oak.

The ivory curve is cold to the touch, though the late morning sun is finally beginning to warm the canopy. It belonged to a stag who roamed these thickets three centuries ago, a creature of immense pride who thought his crown would last forever. Now, the spring moss is slowly claiming the calcium, turning bone into a soft, green velvet bed for the wood-sorrel.
There is a quiet ritual in this shedding. We often cling to our old triumphs as if they were permanent fixtures, yet the forest reminds us that even the grandest weight must be dropped to make room for new growth. I shall leave this fragment where it lies; it serves better as a feast for the beetles than as a trophy on my shelf. Some things are meant to be returned to the earth so the next story can begin.