When I feel raw and humble, I head under the bridge, past the Minimalist magenta sculpture, up the quickly ascending trail, dip beneath a felled tree.

In Autumn, insect bodies slide over the eyes of winter's drowned stones.
wood-1.JPG (34619 bytes) Its arteries clear of debris, water plunges where last month it hardly trickled.

Amidst yellows and browns, hues of red continue to blush. The Green Man is grinning. In summer, one could see no further. Now the forest's apoptosis, the normal death of cells, freeing it from life's entanglements, opens it to its depths.

 

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