The sun is setting. Oranges and pinks dance with the sun. But the trees and rocks form an almost impenetrable blanket over the boy. He cannot see it. He wouldn’t notice if he could. His mind is busy thinking of other things.
More important things.
He doesn’t notice that the trees are a beautifully deep shade of green, or that their perfume fills the air with a thick, fresh scent. Nor does he notice the way the shadows cast by the needles of the pine flit around on the soft mulch under his feet. He does not hear the voices of the birds chatting up in the branches above him, or the gurgling of a small brook not too far to his left; though it could quench his ever growing thirst.
The thoughts swirling about his mind are much too important.