The Forest

There is a mysterious, arcane
other-worldly quality to the seasonal
woods, at times secretive as though
lurking behind moss-and-lichened
giants are the strange figures of
legendary woodland creatures
never seen whose presence haunts
the imagination. In the humid
atmosphere of summer, the crisp
days and nights of fall, the depths
of frozen winter, the emergence
of rebirth in spring, there is never any
lack of surprise for those who venture
there. Wild creatures abound and
occasionally their curiosity about
our presence betrays theirs. There 
is sound if we still our own voices
to interpret what we hear, and
movement forever reaching from
the depths of the forest floor to
visibility, from ferns to fungi. The
swift flight of songbirds and birds
of prey alike thread through the
forest canopy. And on days of 
fiercely cannon-quality winds posing
as micro bursts with the force of 
brutal aggression, trees are felled
and their prolonged, agonized 
crash brings with their plunge to
earth less mature trees unable to
endure the urgent call to gravity.