So, three boys set out on a short exploration before the evening was set in stone. They made their way upon the path they knew well so far, until they came to a great hill of flowers that sprouted up towards the sky. There lay the fallen elk in its final resting pose; it's bones lackadaisical and sprawled like a great bird in flight. We made our way beneath the buzzing arms of flowers until we came to a place covered in broken glasses and battered ships. We sat there and looked onward into the hill orchards, taking in the sunlight to our backs. We made our way back to the iron footsteps of great steam behemoths and sat upon their rails, hurling stones and contemplating our last few years together. We sat in silence for much of it.... each one of us locked in serendipitous thoughts of trees and the sparrows overhead. As we set out for home we took one last picture of the skyline only to have some drunkard in a motor vehicle storm his way up to us asking to see our camera. All backs went rigid as we stared down the unwelcome guest in our quiet forest. We talked him down and sent him back on his way with stones in hand, ready to hail him backward one way or another. Steps toward home were made in haste that night, a fly had landed in our ointment.