Golden Sanctuary- My Escape

The deep purple leaves reach to the sky, with its golden and shimmering sturdy-barked trees guiding me down the foot-beaten dirt path. Animals of all uniqueness go about their daily lives, unfazed by another tired traveler. Red squirrels dance about the lush, bright green forest floor. A pastel pink doe and her fawn gracefully step between trees. A bright orange fox mother teaches her kits how to hunt. Different shades of butterflies flutter around blue orchids and other flowers. A fluffy green and white bee floats between flowers. Upon a high branch, a deep blue-black raven sits and watches everything. Particularly following me.

The path leads through a clearing. Sitting dead center of the opening is a crystal clear pond with a stream emptying down into the pond. I assume the stream is running down from the faded, icy blue mountains, miles away. The clearing is perfectly sized for a tired soul to make camp and rest for the night. The safest. I decide to stay for the night. I glance up at the sky, noting the raven on a branch a few trees away. The sun has started to set. I slip my backpack off my shoulders and let it fall to the ground. I stretch my back before kneeling and undoing the tarp tied to the front. I tie the tarp to a tree and angle it down slightly so I can anchor it to the ground. Once that’s done, I unzip my bag and pull out my fire starter. I race to gather sticks and start the fire. Sparks fly onto the sticks and a blaze flickers to life.

I glance back up at the sky. The sun is getting lower. Deep purples, faded pinks, bright but deep oranges, and a last hint of cyan blue. I grab a canned meal, pop the tab, and pull back the lid. I gently set the can on the fire and let it cook. I prop myself back on my elbows, tilting my head up to watch the pink sliver of the moon rise and nestle into the deep purple night sky. The moon settles between constellations- Gizmo and Luna. It illuminates the tops of the trees.

The can starts to sizzle, signaling my dinner is done. I find two small but sturdy sticks and use them to ease the can out of the fire and onto a nearby rock. With the fork from a small bag in my backpack, I stir the food. I let it sit for a moment, letting it cool before I start to eat. As I start eating, I savor the taste and listen to the nightbird’s song. Once I finish eating, I set the can back next to the campfire. I move towards the pond, stopping at the edge and kneel. I cup my hands and dip them into the chilled water. I let my hands fill with water before I gently bring my hands back to my lips and drink. The cold water passes my lips, refreshing my mouth. The cold temperature of the water immediately shoots through my body, cooling me down a bit. I shake my hands dry.

I move to gather more sticks, settling them in my arms as I go. Once I gather what I feel is enough to keep the fire alive for the evening, I head back to the flames. I add a few sticks to the flickering blazes and watch the fire pick back up. I set the rest of the sticks in a pile next to my makeshift tarp tent. I pull my sleeping bag from the front of my backpack and unroll it onto the ground under the tarp. I hang my backpack onto a branch above the tarp. I slip my shoes off and set them near the edge of the roots. I rub my sore feet and sigh. I roll my ankles, trying to relieve some pain. I stretch my back and my arms. I crawl into my sleeping bag, zipping myself into it. I lay back on the soft grass and close my eyes. I let the nightbirds sing me to sleep with their lullabies. I drift into a peaceful and much-needed slumber.

I start to stir once the morning doves start to chirp. They sing their morning tunes lightly and echoingly. My blue eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to the sunrise. Light pinks and golden yellows mix with an awakening cyan sky. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and sit up. I stretch my arms up and yawn. “Best sleep I’ve had in a while,” I say aloud to any listening woodland animal. Nothing answers, only the rustling of the leaves in the gentle breeze and the soft trickling sound of the stream feeding into the pond. My arms drop back to my side, and my hands rest on my lap.

Then, somewhere to my left, a branch creaks. I glance up towards the sound. The raven is still here. Watching. ‘It never left, did it?’ I tilt my head and don’t acknowledge the odd feeling resting shallowly in my chest. I let out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and unease. “You never left, huh?” I ask the stalking raven. My voice is still rough and dry from sleep, so I try clearing it. The raven pauses for a moment, then nods back to me slightly. Taken aback, I slip out of my sleeping bag and hurry to slide into my shoes. “You know what I am saying?” I ask again. The raven doesn’t move. “You understand me?” The raven nods again. My eyes widen in shock. I finally get my shoes on.

I stand up and step into the sunlight, but shiver as the breeze floats around my body. I grab my teal jacket from my backpack and slip it on. I zip it up to block the gentle cold air. I take in the morning for a moment. The morning air is chilly and clean, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. It feels different than yesterday—sharper somehow, more awake. Or maybe it’s because I arrived in the late afternoon.

I move towards the pond, the surface is smooth as glass, reflecting the soft pinks and golds of the waking sky. For a moment, I stand there, looking at my reflection. I look less tired as I feel. But not fully rested, just more than I have been in the past. Like a bit of the weight and stress I was carrying left in my slumber.

A soft ripple disturbs the peaceful water. I blink, watching the sky’s reflection waver and then still as the ripple fades away. The odd feeling in my chest deepens; something is off. I watch the reflection of the trees behind me. The trees stretch towards the sky, as they should. Perched on one of the branches behind is the raven, still watching. I tilt my head; it seems so close in the reflection, but it can’t be true. My breath catches in my throat. I turn around sharply, eyes darting to the branch of the tree. Nothing. The branch is empty, like nothing was ever there.

A quick flicker in the air, a small rush of air brushes my hair. Then a soft thud behind me. I spin back around, facing the pond once more. The raven stands at the edge of the pond, its beady black eyes watching my movement. It’s barely three feet away from where I stand. ‘It’s a lot bigger than it first seemed.’ Its feathers catch the morning light, shifting between deep blue and black like oil on water. Even though its eyes are dark, they aren’t empty. They hold something I can’t quite understand. We stare at one another. The seconds start to pass slowly. I shift uncomfortably. The raven turns to look at the path, and something in the motion feels... gentle. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just aware.

It doesn’t move right away. It simply stands there, feathers settling softly against its body as the morning light slips over them. A breeze drifts through the clearing, carrying the scent of water and wildflowers, and for the first time since I woke, I don’t feel watched. I almost feel accompanied. I let out a slow, quiet breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. I let my body relax. My shoulders loosen, the tension easing from my spine as I take a small step closer to the pond. The water glimmers faintly, undisturbed now, as if the strange moment from before had folded itself neatly away.

I step to the edge of the pond and kneel. I cup my hands, sink them just below the surface. I scoop up a bit of water and bring it to my lips. I sip down the water. It cools my throat. I shake my hands off and stand up. I turn back to my backpack. I walk to it, stopping in front, and grab a snack bar from the food pouch. The raven gives a low, almost melodic sound. Not a warning. Not a command. Something closer to reassurance. It takes a single hop toward the path, then pauses again, glancing back—not sharply, but patiently.

I take my time gathering my things. The last embers of the fire glow faintly, warm but fading, and I nudge a bit of dirt over them, watching the smoke curl lazily into the air. My sleeping bag rolls up easily, my movements slower than yesterday, less driven by urgency and more by quiet intention. Everything feels…lighter. When I sling my bag over my shoulder again, it doesn’t seem to weigh as much. I step toward the Raven, my boots brushing softly against the grass and dirt. When I near the edge of the path, it doesn’t retreat—just shifts slightly, making space, as if we’re sharing the same direction rather than following one another.

The raven starts to fly, heading down the path. I follow behind it. The forest greets us in hushed tones—the distant flutter of wings, the soft scurry of small creatures in the undergrowth, the whisper of leaves overhead. Sunlight filters through the deep purple canopy in scattered gold, warming the path in patches as we go down the path. The raven stays just in my gaze, always matching my pace.

I no longer question if this beautiful raven is leading me somewhere. I just allow the peacefulness to engulf my mind. For now, it’s enough to walk. To breathe. To follow a path that doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.