Its been weeks since Pasha and I have been for a wander in the forest, but today,
in an afternoon break from relentless rains, we steal away amongst the sparkling
mosses and dripping branches. We pass the garden, a flattened mass of tall flowers,
duck under the sweep of hemlock boughs, and enter a glowing world of greens and browns. Pasha leads the way on the well-worn path, his excitement is apparent in
the bouncing of his gait. I can feel the forest's ancient embrace wrap around me, a
voice gently whispers that I've been missed. Off to the west, the river's gushing roar
joins with trickles of the small streams, not a human-made sound can be heard.
We pause at a small pool just as a gentle breeze shakes drops from
the branches. Glass wind chime-tinkling sounds and
whirling patterns on the water's surface - gifts from
the forest's unseen pattern-maker.
I walk now, with an eye to spinning, whirling patterns.
Pasha springs upon the whispering stone, as is his way,
pausing to scan for creatures.
At my feet a mound of moss wears horns of white fungi.
A different assortment of mushrooms has bloomed
in the forest, I'm amazed by the variety.
The patterner paints more magic on the surface of a swelling pond.
Always, as we walk, we find each other's wildness.
Back in the garden,
a very wet morning glory gently folds in
on its starry center.
By tomorrow, the blue will shift to red
and the delicate translucency will melt away.
