This scrap of parchment has been caught in the brambles since the first cicadas began their song.

I found it while tracing the old moss-choked path near the Silver-Run stream, where the afternoon sun hangs heavy and gold. The handwriting is frantic, a traveler’s desperate ink-spill about a meeting they could not miss and a time they could not recover. It is curious how your kind carries the weight of tomorrow like a heavy stone, even when the forest offers a bed of soft ferns to rest upon.
While this traveler was racing against the shadows, the oak above them was busy adding a single, silent ring to its heart. We often mistake speed for purpose, yet the swiftest river often misses the beauty of the stones it polishes. If you find yourself breathless on your own path, sit by the roots for a moment. The world will wait for you to find your rhythm again.