writing out of shear boredom

the Loner trudged through the whispering Forest. the leaves crunched beneath his feet; birds chirped solemnly. squirrels gathered nuts without a word. the only man-made item in site, a pealing, decrepit bird house mounted to a wide oak, a lasting testament to the Forest creatures. a clutch of small robin's eggs lay still inside the dark hole. the mother alights off her branch to perch on the home. the animals trusted the Loner, but they could sense that he was not same. he didn't walk with the same idleness, the same leisurely, wistful stride. he had changed in the days he spent in town. he had abandoned them, he is a traitor. he didn't even stop to chew on clovers or check on the Sprites or Pixies in the underbrush. he just strode onward, ignoring. the trees murmured disappointment, the wind whistled its pain. the Forest lay, bruised, for many years to come. this was the Loner's last walk.