Slowly, the cloud cover was burned away, and the hills humped up like waves, stretching to the horizon. There were small sounds. The rustle of squirrels. Wind in tree limbs. The door to the cabin stood ajar, like a mouth open in silent surprise. Everything was hushed in the aftermath. From within, there was a faint rustling sound that grew slowly fainter as the morning breeze died. It had been cool at dawn this high up, the night’s cold still laying in the hollows like the memory of a dream. You could smell the damp of pine needles in the air. Dogwoods flowered ghostly white in spots along the slopes. The scholar was an early riser who liked to watch day come to his retreat. But he was an old man used to comfort. He had watched for a moment, then turned to his cabin, the scent of coffee hurrying him back inside. He turned the lights off as the sun grew stronger. The rays slanted across the old wooden table, washing golden bars across the papers that lay there. He carefully cleared a spot for his coffee mug and picked up a pencil, slowly editing last night’s work.
