A child sat on the riverbank. The day was warm and bright, holding those within in the palm of its hand. Around the child were thin willows, providing shelter from the sun and sometimes sighing in a sudden breeze. It wasn't a wide river, but it was his. The world was restful. A brace of fish lay below him in the water, wound around a willow stick, cooling in a cold embrace. It wasn't long now before he had to head home. But for now he cast out again, and continued to breath with the world. Listening to the river, the sun, and the breeze, learning all he could.
It was well past noon when he finally decided to head home. Setting down his fishing rod and jumping down to the edge of the river, the boy methodically cleaned the fish he'd caught, giving silent thanks for each. A crow came to watch him expectantly from down the riverbank, cocked head and bright eyed. The boy threw him some scraps, which the crow greedily pecked away at after a caw.
There was a lean sun-browned look about the boy. Moose-hide pants, vest, and a now empty sheath were his only dress as he stooped over the fish. His dark brown hair was recently shorn, jagged and short, as if done hastily. There was a tightness in the child's hazel eyes that belonged in someone much older, and a certain knowledge. They were eyes that spoke more than the child's voice, and took in everything.
Finishing with the fish, he cleaned and sheathed a long thin knife. Standing up, he looked around him, then shut his eyes to lose himself for a few more moments in the world. The crow's expectant caw brought him back. The boy stood staring at the crow for a minute, then gathered his things and the fish and walked home, threading silently through the wilderness on bare feet.