Ruffed Grouse

The moss won’t give an inch. It took decades to cover this fallen trunk, to smooth out its edges, to turn dead wood into a green, breathable bed. It is here, in this thick silence, that two grouse stand, separated by a log and connected by a glance. The one with its back to us listens more than it looks, its crest bristling, head turned over its shoulder, as if the underbrush had just creaked somewhere behind the black spruce trees. The other, farther away, balances on the mossy bark, one leg barely touching the ground, ready to vanish in the brief flutter of wings characteristic of the species. There’s no rush in this forest. Time here is measured in centimeters of moss and tree rings, not in hours. Light arrives only sparingly, filtered through generations of conifers that have never known the axe.