I sit at the edge of the rock. Chilly air pricks at my skin. I shuffle my Xtratufs into the pebbles. The rocks squirm against the rubber. The smell of the ocean tingles my nose. Ravens rise over the trees in silhouettes, their raucous laughter echoing off the jagged rocks of the beach, shattering the silence of the forest.

Stained by the silt of Stikine’s outflow, the placid waters breathe in and out, in tempo with the drifting clouds. Mountains enwrap themselves in misty robes, the snow on their peaks reflecting the sunrise. Gulls on the wing flash white bellies in the sun, their black wingtips dancing in the breeze.

The pink sunrise paints its hues against the clouds, reflects off the tranquil waves of the rising sea. Each brush stroke stains the dullness of the rocks on the beach. A murrelet splashes up through the waves, water rolling off its shiny, black back. A smelt hangs loosely in its mouth. The murrelet swallows it whole, then consumes itself back into the waves.

I stand up, breathing in the crisp air. I begin to walk up to the woods, their flowing branches leaning over me. The aroma of spruce trees and decaying logs coat the forest. The quiet forest explodes with the symphony of a wren’s song. Sunshine weaves itself through the thick branches, dazzling rays moving like waves on a sea. I step deeper into the woods. My boots softly steps into the moist lichen, their tiny assemblies, False Pixie-Cups, awaiting my steps. As I pass a quickly flowing creek, a dipper wavers up and down over the smoothed, slippery creek stones. Polished by time and patience, the stones stand solemnly and hushed. The dipper’s gray body ascends over them and into the clear water. After a few moments, his small form appears above the current. He continues his journey, threading in and out of the water.

I continue my journey, too. I proceed through the woods, once more quiet. The only sounds are the soft steps of my boots and a flock of kinglets chirping in the distance. Golden-crowned with bodies the color of soft fall leaves, they squeeze themselves between branches and grasp small insects with their dwarf bills. Flittering overhead, calling to themselves, they flash their lurid crowns at each other.

Nearing the edge of the forest, where woodland meets town, the dirt molds into concrete. Trees are less concentrated and forest birds refuse to show themselves in the broad daylight. Pigeons fly above the buildings, and the squealing of starlings cut the silence. Smells from a nearby smokehouse flood the streets. Cars roar past, their loud colors and tints flashing along the road. But there is still one thing that remains the same. Ravens, shadows cast from above, fly boisterously, looping and twisting their aerobatic forms across the town. One, sitting in a tree overlooking everything, welcomes me home.