In the end, it wasn’t heroism that stayed with me, but humility. The forest had always been alive, intricate, and fragile; I had simply moved through it as a visitor, assuming the calm was permanent and the beauty effortless. Those chicks, trembling on the forest floor, exposed the thin line between safety and disaster, between a life unnoticed and a life saved by chance.
Now, when I return to those trails, I walk slower. My gaze lingers on low branches and shadowed roots, listening for the smallest rustle that might mean trouble or survival. The woods are still my refuge, but no longer a backdrop to my thoughts; they are a living community I’m accountable to. I can’t protect everything, and I know that. But I can’t pretend not to see anymore, either—and that quiet shift has changed every step I take beneath the trees.
