“The Breath of Cedar and Sky”

In the golden hush of early morning, where the roar of a sacred waterfall drowns the world’s burdens, a lone warrior sits on the moss-slick stone. He believes that to speak through the flute he must first listen to the land. The cold of the earth, the pulse of water beneath, and the scent of wet cedar shape his every breath as he carves.

The flute is nearly complete—cedar heartwood, soft and resonant, chosen under the guidance of a dream. Each notch and feather tied with purpose. It is not just an instrument—it is a prayer, a gift to the wind, a voice for memories no longer spoken.

Above him, a hawk circles once before descending to a nearby pine. The warrior does not look up. He does not need to. He has felt the bird’s arrival as surely as he has felt the river’s rhythm. They are companions in this sacred moment, messengers of the sky and stone.

Today, he will breathe life into the wood, and the hawk will carry its song to the heavens.