We don’t see the layers beneath us.
There are stories, with fixed beginnings and endings, but they are hidden.
Until the storms.
When the water has washed past and the wind has settled, they leave a map in their wake.
A perfect record of the passing years, etched into exposed soil.
Fires, drought, flooding are all written there if you know the language.
Even in the corner- a fine bone, a small tale of passing of something too tiny to notice on a grander scale.
This is the joy of a retelling.
As narrator, we can make the death of a field mouse be the tragedy we speak.
In the background, the forest is a shadow.
We can regret the smallest-
Even as the smoke rises.
If you would like more layers, raveled and unraveled, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.