Summer

Seated upon an decomposing log near a tiny stream, a small starkly-blonde boy gazed out across the scenery and marveled at the summer day. Brilliant daylight shone, obscuring large puffy clouds on the horizon and reflecting brightly across the clear stream. A gentle breeze mixed with the damp air that soothed and cooled the skin even as the bright light of the day bore down relentlessly. Calm stream waters ran past him in a low burble, and several fish were visible within the shallows. A bird call encroached on the relative quiet, and immediately the source was revealed as a heron that had been standing virtually motionless amongst some nearby reeds. As the boy had his attention drawn to the heron, which had been joined by another, he noticed the stir of dragonflies disturbed by the arrival of the second heron.

In that moment, the boy became fascinated with the dragonflies and he tried to follow their movements as they zipped to and fro. He watched as the dragonflies would hover in place, darting quickly away never to be seen again. He then watched another as it skimmed across the surface of the stream, while yet others settled themselves on new reeds nearby, their seemingly magical wings spread on display. The boy thought to imitate the reeds, and he extended his arm and pointed his finger upward and away from him. After a moment, his patience paid off and a captivating blue widow skimmer chose to alight upon his finger. Excitement and elation overwhelmed the boy and quickly turned to disappointment as he scared the dragonfly away trying to quickly pull his hand closer to his face. His fingertip still tickled from the memory of the tiny creature that had just been perched upon it, and his whole body tingled as he perfectly recalled the sensation -- every tiny grasp and pinch, every little hair and claw were etched into him now.

How do they do that?

"Diluc!"

Hearing the familiar shout, he leaped to his feet, heart racing as he fled the call. He knew what awaited him at the other end of that summons. Across the stream and through the other side he ran, the wildlife he had so serenely enjoyed moments ago scattered to his abrupt behavior. He continued to run, through the clearing surrounding the stream and straight towards the treeline. His muscles burned and his chest ached as he ran, and he thought of running so far that he couldn't find his way back if he wanted to. He thought of getting lost and living a different life. He wished that he could somehow sprout wings like the dragonfly and carry himself to safety. He could not, though, and so he ran filled with fear.

Deep in the woods, the boy had finally arrived at his home and relief surged through him. A large banyan tree enshrouded in thick vines had a few particularly extensive hollows that the boy had managed to find and further excavate. There was a fat tallow sitting in the middle of the ground of the opening and the boy lit it, since even in the middle of the day it was dark in there. After lighting the area he grabbed the knife he kept here and quietly picked at the ground with it, stirring up the rich earthen soil that was trapped within the banyan's framework and releasing a heady fragrance of detritus. He paused and thought to listen to see if he had been followed. Sometimes that happens, though he's never been found.

I wish they would just leave me alone.

Scraps of food and other odds and ends have been collected in the cradle of the banyan the boy has taken to calling his home. Most of the items are stolen though some are borrowed, as he told himself. They didn't need it anyway, they had plenty in their houses, as he well knew. The boy liked to make sport some times of sneaking into peoples homes when they weren't there. He would find an open window or an unlocked door and creep inside, usually taking some food or something else that caught his eye, especially keys. He would always take keys if he found them, not knowing or caring what they went to, and so had a collection of keys accumulating in his hideout.

A stab of the knife into the dirt and soon the boy plopped himself down, grabbing up a half-eaten hunk of bread, brushing it off and consuming a huge bite. He'd eaten worse, and probably would again, so dirty stale bread was actually a treat. He hadn't found any worms to go with it, so he'd just have to settle for the bread today he decided. There probably wouldn't be many more worms until another rain, and it had been weeks. Most of the adults he overhead complained about it recently, so it must be a problem. Abruptly, the boy dropped what was left of the bread and hugged his knees to his chest.

I'm the problem.

The small boy struggled to force back tears, because he knew crying was dangerous. He couldn't help it this time, though, and so he tried to sob quietly in hopes of not being caught. A peal of thunder echoed in the distance and though he wasn't afraid, he did seem to take it as an invitation for his sadness to further wrack his body. In moments the steady echoing patter of a torrential rain filled his ears, smothering the sounds of his own belabored anguish.

Hours passed since the boy had exhausted himself, and day became night. He awoke with a start, nestled still within the confines of the damp Banyan roots, knife clutched in his tiny hand.

Maybe it's late enough.

He knew if he was out late enough, when he returned no one would be home. He extricated himself from his hiding spot and picked his way through the enshrouding vines that still had plenty of the recent rain clinging to them. And so he crept his way home, on high alert for anyone he might need to evade.

The adults will have to find something else to complain about.