The red letter box

There goes a story about a misty morning walk, that has to be told before dusk comes along. As twilight trickled slowly, a shrill alarm was due to scream, in the dead of dawn while sleep tossed in bed, those feet scampered and sneaked across green fields. Into the peace of woods, so eerie yet calm, cracking leaves, snappy twigs, silence held its own balm. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, it stood red and rusted, the box that held moments, some questions, assortments rejected. Groggy, seeking eyes rushed forward. A letter waiting, some words..maybe a song, maybe a poem. Eager hands brushed asides, fingers dug between the leaves piled. What was that scrap of a ruled sheet? Why was the air so eager?