The wind has a new voice; “Hurry, hurry!” Playful and insistent.
High, a hawk or a falcon. Blunt head, flat wings, circling. Slivers in and out of the sun, becomes a splinter, is gone. Into the wood we go.
Who knew? The shap little buds become blossoms that bend in the wind, waving tender red leaflets. See!
A haze of green whispers around the elders.
The healing plants have flowered, but their eyes are closed in the morning. Sleeping? After noon, the forest floor explodes in white. Leggy and brazen in the light.