Crisp leaves scurry across the ground, breaking free from the morning frost. Bare branches sway like cathedrals against a darkening sun. A late chirp of sparrows interrupts November’s quiet dusk.
It’s the time for Thanksgiving.
And how grateful I am for the woods; this one, the one I had as a child, the ones I will have when I’m old. I think - though thousands of miles apart- they are the same. I think tree energy surpasses lines on a map. I think the hum echoes, travels, shares, waits open-armed. And I suppose if I was to sit against a tree, might I feel you against yours?
Oh for the grace of trees.
Anthea and Marigold listen to November’s heartsong . . . colorful as cranberries, sincere as the frosted leaf, thick with promise, and endless as one’s imagination.
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