When we arrived the threat of rain ceased
and the sun appeared and we took this as
an omen that our presence mightily pleased
the elements to see us once again explore
the forest byways of the White Mountain
National Forest, treating us to the recalled
beauty of mountain streams gushing across
forest depths from valley to valley lapping
their way along the boulder-strewn runways.
Hemlock, pine and yellow birch bedecked
with rosettes of green-grey lichen, dogwood
and moose maple in the lower storey of the
forest canopy, straw lilies, false Solomon's
Seal and Ladies Slipper, lilies-of-the-valley
and trilliums crowding the forest floor. The
stream foaming over erratics fallen from the
slopes above, song sparrows lilting bright
melodies and yellow admirals floating lighter
than air through the warm, humid dusk of
the forest interior. Yet leave we must to
return another year to this magical place of
natural beauty, and as we do the skies weep
disconsolate; parting is such sweet sorrow.
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